


Deprivation, Retribution, Beloved

by Olivia_Avery, swedishmafiafish



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-03-27 08:57:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13877538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olivia_Avery/pseuds/Olivia_Avery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swedishmafiafish/pseuds/swedishmafiafish
Summary: Grantaire loved Enjolras just as he was: wild and cruel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta reading and corrections done by the amazing Swedishmafiafish!

 

* * *

  

Grantaire loved Enjolras just as he was: wild and cruel — a well of rage shaped like clay into an Adonis body. A purifying fire, but a fire nonetheless.

Grantaire knew Enjolras liked violence; he stood too long over broken bodies, head cocked up, breath too even. His great speeches on street corners-- for revolution brought by action -- was a window. Yet, it wasn't until the small scuffle some months before June that Grantaire truly believed it.

'Small scuffle,' it was anything but. Grantaire's ears rung. He prodded his tongue at the stub of a half-tooth, where a man's elbow had hit. His face and ribs hurt most, and the aching, electric pain on his scalp (the scoundrels had pulled his hair, of all things; a childish way to fight) left him feeling awake and jittery.

"Enjolras," he said, his words rebounding between brick walls. It was only the two of them left. Well, except for the man passed out beside Enjolras' boots. But not that he counted at this point. "Tell me, do you see the other half of my tooth anywhere?"

Save for the rise and fall of his chest, Enjolras stood stock-still. His reddened fists were still clenched. A sliver of blood ran from his right nostril to his top lip. Grantaire wondered if his mouth tasted like copper. Some of his blonde hair was matted, browned. Something about the sight felt obscene to Grantaire; to see a man so wholly possessed. It felt akin to the thrill of seeing Rome burn.

It wasn't until Grantaire was beside him, gently placing a hand on Enjolras' shoulder, that the man finally flinched. He sucked in air, turned to look at Grantaire with bright, wide eyes and a thin, down turned mouth.

"Come," said Grantaire and he pressed his open palm further against Enjolras' shoulder, gently leading the man forward, away from the breathing, bloodied, and bruised young man at his feet. "Although I commend you for fighting so well, I must also commend myself. I am Hephaestion himself, beside you in battle.” They turned a corner, walking same-paced down the street. "You may find me distasteful, dear friend, but I know the look of far more distasteful men. They weren't too pleased with your speeches this evening, were they? I saw them nod to one another with that dark look to their eyes. See? I do pay attention to things other than bad wine. Such was why I asked to walk beside you.”

Enjolras didn't respond. He was lost in thought, his eyes glazed, looking where the end of the street lay, the corners of his mouth twitching with words he wouldn't speak aloud.

They came to a fork in the road. If Grantaire was a good man, he figured, he would take the right-most street, stay silent, and bring Enjolras back to his own apartment. If he was a good man, he would let the man live with his thoughts alone. But, Grantaire was a scoundrel. And a man who knew opportunity when presented to him. So, after a brief glance at the man beside him, and seeing that Enjolras gave no word to his preferred direction (or perhaps that bloody welt on his head was rendering him comatose?), Grantaire led them to the left, down a small string of alleyways, across the differing elevations of cobblestone, and to the front of his own, humble apartment.

"Come," he said, "I can't promise you the works of great revolutionists painted on my walls, or a bed in which to sleep in apart from my own, but I do have wine; and while you may not drink much, think of it more as medicine this evening."

Life slipped back into Enjolras. His eyelashes fluttered suddenly, his brows knitted together; from his great, thoughtful stupor, he looked up at the dirty, old building Grantaire called home, and finally realized how lost he had been in his own, rattled mind. Suddenly his body jerked beneath Grantaire's touch.

"No," he said simply. "You were a friend to walk along with me tonight, even more-so to stand beside me through that scuffle, but my apartment is in the other direction."

Grantaire frowned, but shrugged. He had tried, but to no over-excessive fault. He clapped Enjolras on the shoulder, the same shoulder he had used to lead the man somberly through the Parisian streets, and climbed the stairs to the front door of the building. He rattled his pockets for his keys. Enjolras remained where he stood. Perplexed, Grantaire called out: ”I imagine you're wanting to speak to Combeferre about violence at the moment; at least, that's what I figured was keeping you so quiet this entire walk. But, you know Combeferre; he's dead to the world in slumber by now, I'm sure. Will your pen and paper be enough to handle your thoughts until morning?"

Enjolras, his expression still cross, cocked his weight to his left hip and crossed his arms. "You're taunting me," he said simply.

"I am," said Grantaire, swinging open the front door. But he paused to enter. “Tomorrow, when you speak of the ills of violence to Combeferre, he'll reason the depraved humanity of it, verbally paint the imagery of a future without it. And you'll be breathing heavily in the corner as you think of that man's blood staining your undershirt." He looked to Enjolras, an eyebrow raised, a small smile pulling his lips upward. "Come, Enjolras, despite all of your idealized notions of golden futures, there's a reason you salivate when you read of a king's head beneath a guillotine."

Enjolras stepped forward, causing a lurch of excitement to kick-up within Grantaire's stomach. "I am not privy to violence," Enjolras corrected, the wooden stairs creaking beneath his boots. "But, at times, violence is called upon, and I am forced to bow my head to it."

"Oh indeed," said Grantaire, entering the doorway. Enjolras followed. "You don't seek it. You don't go about in taverns calling for fights. But when you come to face it, you enjoy it."

They stopped at the front door of Grantaire's apartment. Grantaire paused and cocked his head to the side, looking at Enjolras with slightly squinted eyes, before asking, "Have you been to my home before?"

"No; nor had I ever wanted to."

"Well, odd night it is then."

They entered without much fanfare. Grantaire stepped immediately towards his candles to light them, and then to his wash basin, where he dipped a kerchief into the stagnant water within. Enjolras stood, awkwardly, in the center of the room, eyeing the strewn about paintings, the peeling wallpaper, the dogeared books.

"One day, violence will no longer be needed; disputes will be settled by learned facts and reason. But for now, there are times to push—“

"I'm agog," cut in Grantaire, "That you can still preach while you're so wet with blood and bruises. Come here so I may clean you."

Enjolras bit his tongue. There was no hope to reason with Grantaire; he was a man who mocked everything, and Enjolras’ body (jaw, chest, ribs, hip) hurt too much to keep pressing. So he instead paced forward, grabbed the wet kerchief from Grantaire's hands (it was a ridiculous thought, to allow Grantaire to pretend to play doctor) and pressed the damp cloth to his own bleeding skull.

"Don't forget your nose," chided Grantaire.

"I'm aware."

A timid silence fell. Enjolras cleaned himself while Grantaire stood beside him, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. Grantaire couldn't decipher if it was the everlasting thrill of the fight that caused his adrenaline to continue spiking, or if it was how close they stood beside each other when not surrounded by the politically ablaze.

"Grantaire," Enjolras set a hand on his shoulder, cutting through the thick silence. Grantaire jumped from under it. ”Thank you again," he said pointedly, "For staying beside me. For running toward the mess when you heard the fight. I admit I am surprised you did so, but I am thankful."

Grantaire smirked. He shrugged his shoulders. "Never one to doll compliments on me, without a scathing review to match. Think none of it. I happily go where you lead, and as you do, I do not shy away from violence; such is human's nature."

Enjolras winced. Guilt hitched like a small stone in his throat.

"Yes," he sighed. "Such is human nature for now."

"There's blood still on your jawline."

"Your tooth is still missing."

"Ah," said Grantaire, laughing. "Only half of it, really. I look more rogue than student now. Come, do you want some wine?"

"No, no," Enjolras sighed. He set the damp cloth down. "I'll be going."

Panic set up. Suddenly, Grantaire was desperate to keep the man there. "How cruel you are," he said, grabbing an unopened bottle from his cabinet. "I fought beside you, and you still cannot accept a glass from me. No wonder I am a cynic."

He looked over to Enjolras, a smug smile on his lips. Enjolras, in turn, was frowning, arms limp at his sides. Finally, the man sighed: "Fine."

Ecstasy! A great joy bloomed in Grantaire's chest as he scrambled to find not one, but two! glasses in which to pour his wine. Enjolras seated himself at the dingy, little table in the center of Grantaire's room, shrugging his red coat off beforehand. His white undershirt was browned from hours-old blood, but Grantaire looked no better.

"Well," said Grantaire, setting the glasses down before them, and filling the cups close to the brim. "A toast to those brutes who tried to best us. And, a toast to us for besting them."

Enjolras grinned slightly and clinked his glass against Grantaire's. He took a small sip, while Grantaire took a large gulp.

"Tell me," said Grantaire, wiping wine from the corner of his mouth. "What did it feel like to fight tonight? You fight often, do you not?"

"I don't fight often."

"But you're good at it."

"That doesn't mean I fight often."

"With words you do," Grantaire laughed. Enjolras started back blankly. "Anyway, let us toss my second question aside. Back to the first: what did it feel like to fight tonight?"

The corner of Enjolras' mouth twitched. "It felt necessary. Otherwise, I wouldn't have--"

"Of course it felt necessary," Grantaire scoffed. "You've got three men running at you, fists in the air, your choice was fight or run. What I'm asking is what you  _ felt _ like. When you had that man on the ground, your hands around his neck, for instance."

Enjolras startled, the fingers he had been tapping on the table ceased. His jaw moved, once, back and forth in thought.

"Don't over think it," said Grantaire. "You didn't kill him."

"I know," said Enjolras, "I wouldn't have wanted to."

"Right. You're no Baron de Rais."

Enjolras's mouth gaped. He narrowed his eyes at Grantaire. "Of course not," he scoffed.

"Yes, exactly, that is what I'm saying. You are noble, you are pure, but, to another degree, violence excites you. I noticed it."

Enjolras became silent. He took another sip of wine. Grantaire wondered if, perhaps, that had been a small sign of, what,  _ anxiety _ ?

"Come," said Grantaire, downing his drink. He poured himself a new glass, and topped off Enjolras’ half-downed glass. He felt brazen. The night had already been unfolding so well; by sure luck, none other than God himself was in his apartment. "I was quite impressed by your stance on the man, forgive me for noticing. But when I have a man pinned, they so easily toss me aside and take to kicking my ribs. But you held him down well. When our revolution comes…” Grantaire stood, pushing his chair away with a flourish, and walked to the center of the room. He eased himself down to the floorboards, laying flat-backed on the wood. "I'm sure it'll be important for me to know this."

Enjolras snorted. "You'll be passed out drunk during our revolution. Take something serious for once.” But, still, Grantaire's small mention of his part, and the importance of preparing for it, had sparked some glimmer of hope in Enjolras. For despite all of Grantaire's shortcomings — his cynicism, extraneous humor, unabashed drunkenness — Enjolras wished, truly, to like him, and often felt chided when that brief glimmer of possibility was dashed by Grantaire's idiotic mirth.

"Alright," said Enjolras. As if to signify the sealing of his fate, he finished off his glass as well, and brought Grantaire's over to him. Grantaire quickly sat up, finished his drink in one quick gulp, and threw himself back onto the ground. Enjolras stooped beside him.  _ Heaven _ , thought Grantaire.

"Don't grapple from the side," Enjolras began. "If you want to pin someone, the knee is most important. I'm going to put all of my weight onto it, see here," and with that, Enjolras pressed his knee into Grantaire's rib cage (much to Grantaire’s great pain; his previous bruises were still fresh and painful), and swung his hands to rest on Grantaire's shoulders for balance. ”The diaphragm is here," he continued, now placing his knee into a different spot, and applying his weight there.

" _ Oh-- _ " groaned Grantaire, the breath pushing out of him. "Alright, I feel that."

"Right, and I would continue that, but if his arms are tormenting you..." and here Enjolras moved his body forward, his left knee sitting atop Grantaire's right arm, his right knee upon Grantaire's left. All of the weight of his body pressed down onto Grantaire. "Pinned."

"And then you grab a strong hold of their neck?"

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I suppose about here you could."

"Then do it."

The corners of Enjolras's lips twitched, and for a few moments Grantaire wondered if he had spoiled the fantastical mirage before him.

But then Enjolras moved, his left hand grabbing a fistful of Grantaire's hair to pull his head back with a hard jerk, while the fingers of his right hand coiled themselves around the top of Grantaire's neck. Almost in instinct, Grantaire kicked his own legs up, and his hips jumped in shock of suddenly being breathless. Still, Enjolras' weight bore down on him, only breaking when a warm, red blush crept from Enjolras' ears to his face. And suddenly, almost as soon as it had happened, Enjolras threw himself off of Grantaire and stood.

He looked as breathless as Grantaire felt. His windpipe now back open, Grantaire heaved for air.

"Well," he said, when his coughing had ceased, "That worked."

Enjolras nodded, and looked down disdainfully at the man beneath him. "I'll be going, then."

"You're a terrible teacher," Grantaire cut in, feeling woozy from the wine and the adrenaline. "You only let yourself try what you teach."

"So I do."

"Come here."

Grantaire watched the muscles in Enjolras' jaw clench and unclench.  Every bit of him seemed distant and electric; a pyre ready to ignite. A saint ready to sin. Until, finally, he sighed, and rubbed the base of his palm against his forehead in agitation. He returned to Grantaire and sat beside him before easing himself gently, by the weight of his elbows, flat with his back onto the floor.

"Do you remember everything I said?"

"Yes," said Grantaire, and suddenly the lightheartedness of utter joy overtook him, making his cheeks feel pinched, his head light, his hands suddenly shaky with delight. "But I do believe I weigh more than you, and I hate to bother you with all of my great weight on your diaphragm. You’re bruised enough as you are. And, your instruction was so clear per the pressing of the knee, that I feel I ought to omit that from my spectacle. If you don't mind."

Enjolras frowned. "Continue, then."

“Right.” Grantaire swung a leg over Enjolras's body, and he perched himself, quickly, into the same straddling position he had been subjected to earlier. Grantaire moved fast and with precision; he was a man knowledgeable of various fighting styles, as well as a bit of dancing (nothing special), and so he was quick to replicate the instruction given to him. And the wine, and every bit of the dazzling night — a sheer, utter wonder in the presence of the only creature he loved on the despicable earth — propelled him forward with a dedicated courage. The full weight of his body quickly pressed onto Enjolras' chest, forcing a clipped " _ God! _ " from the other man when the breath knocked out of him. And in a moment, Grantaire's hands shot forward, one entangled in golden hair, the other gripped around a pale, beautiful neck. 

He watched Enjolras' eyes squeeze shut, and his petal-lips part into an unspoken groan. Just as Grantaire had done, his hips bucked, and his body thrashed, slightly, before coming to rest in its forced position.

And Grantaire could see it; every bit of Enjolras' great beauty; the growing bruise on his jawbone, matching the hue of his stubble, the cut on his lower lip; the slight mis-matching of teeth, one slightly, perfectly crooked. His nose, as well, had been shifted, very, very slightly; Grantaire wondered, briefly, if perhaps Joly could set it back straight, but realized in that same second of thought that the nose now made him imperfectly wonderful, just as all bits of Enjolras were. A messy culmination of passion and progress and utter terrorizing humanity marching toward an idealized, new image.

On the other spectrum of humanity was Grantaire. Selfish, drunken, and despicable: words he called himself when he was alone, and mocked in good company. Selfish, in the way he would let his hand loose, watch Enjolras suck in air, chest heaving, before clamping it back again. Drunken in his joy. Despicable in—

From beneath him, Enjolras twisted his body and bucked, strong enough that Grantaire slid back, his lower spine touching, momentarily, Enjolras’ pelvis. Grantaire let go immediately at the sensation.

_ Despicable, for once, in something similar, _ he realized.

Enjolras sat up, coughing, his chest heaving, mind popping like bursts of light. Grantaire remained seated in his lap, feeling utter bewilderment at the undeniable presence pressing into him. His mind grabbed for anything,  _ anything _ , to say in the moment. To speak about how domination is fodder for the mind, and how he had heard murmurings about a censored author, the Marquis de Sade (he thinks that the name?), who had written about similar topics in length,  _ “It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure,” “In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice” _ … But instead, said Grantaire:

“Well, I’m confident this happened to neither of us during that brawl earlier.”

Enjolras, touching a hand to his reddened neck, shot him a pointed glance. Suddenly, damned aware that he had said the wrong thing (which was very much in his nature), Grantaire rocked back, trying more-so to give Enjolras space to breathe, but instead grating his ass on the pelvis below him, producing (once again, to his great bewilderment) a close-lipped groan from Enjolras.

Grantaire could take no more. If he had been an inexperienced virgin, he would have lost his dignity there. But instead he stared, open mouthed, eyes wide, head and heart thumping. “I’ll help you,” said Grantaire quickly, “I’ll help you, I’ll help you.”

“Just get off of me.”

“No, no, no, no,” and he slid his body downward until his stomach was flat on the ground, now situated between Enjolras’ legs. His hands cupped thin hips, and Grantaire looked up, pleading with unspoken words to let him continue.

Enjolras said nothing, nor did he move. It was enough for Grantaire to take as an affirmative. He sat up and moved quickly to remove both of their boots, socks. . .  he paused only momentarily at Enjolras’ trousers, taking in the feeling of reality, of slipping the fabric past ankles and toes, until finally producing the half naked body he had fantasized about.  _ Gloria, gloria, hallelujah. _

Grantaire settled his face against the light, soft pubic hair and sighed happily. And with his right hand he gripped Enjolras, dragging his hand slowly, up and down, thumb pointing upward to press against the tip.

Enjolras’ torso was half propped up by way of his bended elbows. His mouth was slack, eyes half-hooded. When Grantaire moved his lips to his cock, Enjolras allowed his head to loll back. “ _ Fuck _ ,” he breathed raggedly.

“Pleasing, isn’t it?” Grantaire whispered, pulling his lips away only momentarily before returning to his work. Sparsely, he wondered if Enjolras had truly reckoned with himself — if his odd arousal were something he had been aware of since puberty, or if it seemed to come to a head in one night.  _ Ah, no, _ Grantaire realized, sliding his tongue against the underside of Enjolras’ cock; the man must have always been aware of his unfurled immorality, for while Enjolras lacked humor, he was well versed in noticing human depravity.

“Tell me,” said Grantaire, slipping out Enjolras’ prick from the side of his lips with a pop. “All the hours you spend, prattling with Combeferre… Do all of your debates end similarly to this one?”

“Shut up, Grantaire,” bit Enjolras, using to his hands to forcefully push Grantaire’s head back down, to will his lips and tongue back to work. He was sitting up now, fingers curled between thick, black springs of hair, moving Grantaire’s head with an indelicate force. When Grantaire finally sputtered, Enjolras let go, leaving Grantaire to cough and breathe heavy against his prick.

“Get up,” said Enjolras.

“Anything. Anyway. I am amorous and desperate.  _ Semper Fidelis _ .”

Enjolras stood, pulling Grantaire up with him. He removed, quickly, his already undone cravat, his waistcoat, and undershirt, and threw them to the side. Grantaire hurriedly followed suit. Breathing raggedly. Every bit of his body feeling wild like fire. Enjolras moved forward, his hands grabbing —no, pulling, really— Grantaire’s wrist in the direction of the cot. And Grantaire fell onto it, his back hitting an old mattress, arms outstretched, hoping — and failing — at bringing Enjolras into an embrace.

Instead, Enjolras, standing in front of the bed, said, “Roll over.”

And Grantaire did, despite the tinge of nervousness that clogged his mind. He rolled over, onto his stomach, and Enjolras grabbed his hips, propping them up quickly.

“Waitwaitwait,” Grantaire gasped. He hoisted himself up on his elbows, and looked over his shoulder to Enjolras. “Some spit, water, oil, tears,  _ anything _ , damn it all.”

Not wasting a moment, Enjolras spit in his hand. He coated his cock with it. Grantaire groaned, and shoved his face into the mattress, trying to ease every bit of himself; he already knew Enjolras would not be tender. He would not be slow. And when Enjolras pushed himself in, fully to the hilt, Grantaire groaned out a choked, “ _ Fuck _ , good  _ Christ _ —“

Enjolras, for his part, was silent. Brows narrowed in concentration, lips parted into an ‘o.’ And when he came, bucking into Grantaire, he moaned behind closed lips, eyes shut, fingers twitching against the other’s hips.

It was dawn, almost. A frigid blue crept in through the window, and Grantaire, his cheek to the mattress, watched the dim light illuminate his curtains. Enjolras pulled away, and then silently cleaned himself up, layered his clothing back on, and wordlessly set their used kerchief at the edge of the bed for Grantaire.

He spared no goodbye, or kind words. But he did not slam the door behind him as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hephaestion: A Macedonian general and loyal companion to Alexander the Great.
> 
> \- Baron de Rais: A companion-in-arms to Joan of Arc and a leader of the French army during that time. He become more famous, however, for later confessing to the murder and torture of young boys.
> 
> \- Marquis de Sade: A French nobleman from whom the terms “sadism” and “masochism” derive from. Although he wrote his works in the late 1700’s, his explicit novels were outlawed and censored until the 20th century, existing, before then, only in specific circles. Such is why, in this story’s case, Grantaire had only heard of him, but had not read his work.
> 
> Hello there, Les Mis fandom, do you still live?! And oh, what a long prologue on my part. Thank you for sticking through it. This story in its main narrative is meant to be written in short, vignette-style chapters which focus on the evolution of these character’s relationships to each other. However, it felt odd to simply press them together without a catalyst and, even if just for myself, I needed a way for them to sexually and pseudo-romantically break the ice before I could proceed. So wow, take this wall of words, and I’ll see you in the next chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Spring came, delivering a state no better than winter. Paris was dreary and the rain had turned Grantaire's boots sour. Mud caked sickly lines through the streets, left behind by ornate carriages, carrying men who never needed to wade through the mess they dragged behind them.

On a day so horrendous, Grantaire wasn't sure why, exactly, he watched Monsieur Comtois die. He had no relation to the man; he had no interest in the guillotine. And in his usual day of wandering about, he never lingered near the bloodier part of the  _ Place de la Concorde _ for long. Public executions, as they should, made it difficult to eat lunch later. But, as he had passed the platform, a glimmer of light caught the corner of his eye; the sun peeked through the clouds, small, thin rays drilling onto the earth. One of the rays had caught the blonde hair of Monsieur Comtois, and it glimmered, briefly.

That made Grantaire look. But it was the face of the condemned that made him stop.

Monsieur Comtois was juvenile and beautiful; in his early twenties, with a square jawline, and a rough brow. Grantaire didn't know his crime (in his haste to pass the platform, he hadn't been listening to the statement made beforehand), but he heard his name from the throng of people whispering among one another. But, for Grantaire, it wasn't his name that captivated him, or his crime, or, really, that he was even being executed on that dreary day.

Grantaire would realize later, it was that he looked like Enjolras. 

 

 

The Musain was buzzing, but Grantaire felt ill. Even Joly's cheery conversations were agitating him. The cafe smelled like wet dog and tobacco. And the cheese Joly had brought along.

"Grantaire," said Joly, seated beside him. "You seem so debilitated. Have you eaten enough today? Here, look— wait, give me a moment to grab this from my bag. Ah, yes, here: have you tried this cheese before? It's quite good, but I've been feeling slightly sick whenever I eat or drink dairy. It worries me."

"I'm touched," said Grantaire. "But I will do without it." He rested his chin in the palm of his hand and gazed around the room apathetically. "I may feel unwell, but I will continue to have wine, at the very least. I cannot end my ongoing worship of my patron god, Dionysus."

Joly grinned. "Very well. A devout man you are."

Enjolras was across the cafe, seated beside Combeferre. They carried on a quiet conversation about, Grantaire was sure, the growing call of "action" that had been haunting their little group. A sense of duty was picking up among them all (save for Grantaire, as all knew), and the threat of doing more than impassioned talks on street corners, or dispersing pamphlets, was becoming more palpable.

"Does everyone here know how to shoot a gun?" he had overheard Enjolras quietly ask Courfeyrac last week.

From his own table, Grantaire watched Combeferre pull a set of papers out of his case and separate them on the table, splaying them out like one of Feuilly's fans. Enjolras leaned forward, tilting his head to peer at the documents and ledgers that rested on the old wood. Grantaire stared at the back of his neck, how pale and thin it looked from behind the parting of his blonde hair. He thought of Monsieur Comtois, of how easily his neck had fit into the guillotine's neck brace. How easily it had snapped in two, like chalk, under the weight of blade and stone. How his blonde hair had, briefly, briefly, again, shone as it dropped into the basket. Grantaire took a sip of wine. It stung like vinegar on his tongue.

"Don't you think it's all foolish?" said Grantaire aloud. Joly was stacking dominoes on their table.

"Hm? What is? These new dominoes of mine?"

"No. This air of militarism I keep smelling. This ache to churn the world at a faster pace, when the world spins at its own discourse. God is too careless to change anything; you can die with gunpowder in your hair, or a flag tied around your waist, but in the next decade, there will still be monarchy. Your life means nothing, you play no great part in this damned existence; we are but wretched."

"Somber today, aren't we, dear friend?"

From across the room, Enjolras stood, pushing the chair back very carefully, intending to disturb none with his presence. He rounded the table and passed, briefly, by Grantaire and Joly's secluded spot. He stopped where Courfeyrac sat, far in the corner of the room.

Joly watched Grantaire's eyes trail him. "Instead of throwing yourself into a long soliloquy, as you usually do when vying for his attention, or any attention at all" and here, Joly jerked his head in the direction of Enjolras, "Play dominoes with me. I'll worry over my cramping stomach if I am not put to ease by the clicking of these tiles."

"I'm in a regretful mood. I feel lazy and angry. Look at my legs, they're jittering under the table."

"Come," commanded Joly, but in that kindly tone of voice he always seemed to possess. He spread the tiles out across the table. How different they were, thought Grantaire, from Enjolras' war plans laid out on the other side of the room.

 

 

The cafe emptied quickly when the rain finally lightened. Jean Prouvaire reached his hand out the open window, palm facing upward, toward heaven. "It's practically dry," he said, and grabbed his coat.

"Will you both go as well?" asked Bossuet, leaning over the domino game.

"After I win," said Joly.

"Hah," scoffed Grantaire. "Fortuna has not yet awarded you her cornucopia."

"Go on," said Joly to Bossuet. "I'm sure the rain will ease again. It will be God's gift to me for winning. Are the rest of our friends going along with you?"

"All but Enjolras."

Grantaire flinched, accidentally knocking one of his standing dominoes over. He glanced over toward what was Combeferre's table, now occupied by only Enjolras. He was leaning over in his chair, head balanced on his hand, reading the same papers Combeferre had set out prior.

"Three brave souls left to the fate of the rain, then." Joly smiled. "Well, on your way. A good night to you."

 

 

Grantaire lost miserably. Another great pockmark on his preexisting condition, but his terrible mood had lifted from a miasma to a fog.

"A ferocious effort," commended Joly. He offered Grantaire a gentleman's handshake and went for his coat, hung up near the bar. "I'm sure you will be victor next round. And look, just as promised, the rain is but a mist now. Shall we go?"

Grantaire remained in his seat. Enjolras, some tables away from them, was still at work; his pen scratched upon paper in the distance.

"I will stay," said Grantaire evenly. "I have no wine at home, and I will not melt into pneumonia in the rain, unlike you, sweet Jol-l-l-y. Now go, and I'll treat myself to a loser's drink."

"Always hardy, aren't you, Grantaire? Very well." Joly tipped his hat and pat him on the shoulder.

"Give Musichetta my regards."

"Hah, she won't even return a hello from me," Joly laughed, his echo following him down the stairs and out the door.

There were only a few men left in the cafe. Most, incessant drunkards, swearing against the growing puddles outside. The only others: Grantaire and Enjolras.

It was an odd feeling. The last time they had been alone was almost a month ago, and it was a memory Grantaire recalled often— especially in lonely nights and early mornings. But, it was a memory that had never been spoken aloud. Nothing, it seemed, had changed between them; there was no closure from either party. The fact of the night existed, suspended, and was never touched or commented on. There was neither awkwardness, nor a newfound spark. At most, Enjolras felt it easier to chide and lambast Grantaire, and Grantaire felt even more urge to antagonize Enjolras for the sake of further attention.

Grantaire never remained stagnant about his thinking of the situation. On a good day, he found it a blessing— he had been allowed to bed (or, be bedded) by his idealized enigma! And there was no rebuke or aftershock to slap him firmly between the eyes, or forbid him from the Musain! On a bad day, he sulked about the matter: he had been used and tossed aside, as he had deserved. Enjolras couldn't even gift him a glance the day afterward, or any day, really, unless Grantaire spit out sarcastic wit or annoying soliloquies. It was a painful thorn lodged firmly in his heart.

On the day Monsieur Comtois died, it was a bad day.

"Ah, here he is, our noble general," said Grantaire. He had moved from his spot after the top of Joly's hat had disappeared from sight. Now, he gripped his hands on Enjolras' table and looked at the memos smeared across the top. Maps. Notes. Corrections in Combeferre's neat handwriting on yellowed flyers (the original writing was clearly that of Enjolras— hasty and passionate and slanted). One paper detailed local addresses of other similar groups; another listed possible comrades from the working class.

"Don't bother me." Enjolras didn't bother to look up. He was writing a new copy of a disbursement, meant to be shared among other students of the Sorbonne. "Go back to your wine glass. Drinking is the only thing you're good at."

"I was also very good at sucking your cock."

Enjolras' pen faltered for a brief moment. It bled black ink against the paper, leaving a thick, viscous spot in the middle of a sentence. Grantaire smirked. It felt good to see.

Then, as quick as it had gone, Enjolras' composure returned. The pen moved again and, without a glance up, he said: "Are you here only to annoy me?" 

"I am here to celebrate all things I am fine at, and to annoy you is one."

"Be useful." Enjolras shoved a blank stack of papers— as tall as mid-finger— in front of one of the table's empty chairs. "You study art correct?"

Grantaire took himself into the seat. "I do, I suppose"

"Good." And with the same ease, Enjolras slid an original letter beside the stack. "Then you know very well how to create imitations."

Grantaire blinked, and stared down at his new task— it certainly was not as inviting as a glass of wine. "Can you not take this to the printing press?"

"Combeferre suggested personal letters; it shows dedication."

" _ Comrade _ ," Grantaire began reading. " _ The people of France _ . . . Wait, will you begin every letter with only 'comrade,' or will I need to be writing names as well?"

"Only comrade. We don't have the time. You may even write 'citoyen' if you prefer."

"Hm, I'd feel that's more of your taste." Grantaire stared at the original letter. It was, as Enjolras preferred, dramatically written, detailing crimes of the monarchy, the starvation of the lower classes, the promise of a new life by the hand of the people. They were details of the flawed and the ideal written in a sweeping cursive. "And you feel, truly, that a letter will turn the tide of a student's mind and bring them to arms, when they would rather be studying women?"

"If a man is unaware, he is unaware there is work for him to do. These letters will bring enlightenment."

"And is this, also, how you reached enlightenment? A letter arriving at the sea-side chateau of your childhood home? Who delivered it unopened to you? Your maid?"

Enjolras glanced up, finally. There was no joy in his face. Grantaire silently cursed his own venom tongue. "Assist me, or do not assist me," Enjolras' tone was too stark, too poignant; he was bitter. "I do not care which you choose, so long as whatever choice sends you away faster."

Grantaire felt the sting. He bowed his head. "I will help you."

They set to work, silently. One copy, two copies, three . . . Grantaire would glance up, time to time, to catch Enjolras shaking out his hand, trying to rid himself of a writing cramp. But the replicated movements of the wrist were typical for Grantaire -- both in art and pleasure, admittedly. His work was faster, his copies more precise. It was, perhaps, the only good Enjolras had seen him do.

They both startled when the barmaid appeared. Her face was twisted and sour, and it spoke as well as words:  _ It's late. The cafe is closing. Leave. _

"My darling," Grantaire peeped at her tired face. "How wonderfully the late night suits you!" Enjolras gathered the scattered papers and handed Grantaire a stack, wordlessly, before taking the other himself.

 

 

The rain had picked up again. From beneath the awning, Enjolras huffed. It was cold, but he had wrapped his coat around the paper stack. Grantaire mimicked him, but shivered in the damp air. "This is horrible," he said.

Enjolras nodded. His eyes looked up to the heavens, thinking. His eyebrow twitched. "My apartment is not far," he said. "I would like to finish these letters tonight; would you mind dropping your stack off there?"

Grantaire's eyebrows raised. "Tonight?"

"Yes, if it isn't a hassle."

"It isn't."

"Alright then," and Enjolras walked forward, into the rain. Grantaire hurried beside him, cursing at the cold and wet.

 

 

Enjolras kept his apartment neat, only by the way of keeping very little in it. It contained a writing desk with a chair, a bed and a small wardrobe beside it. The only decoration: books stacked against the walls. But the wood flooring was kept in better shape than what Grantaire was used to, and the ceilings boasted semi-intricate white molding. Not that Enjolras seemed to ever notice these details.

The bed wasn't made. Something about that made Grantaire feel a bit more at ease. A reminder that a real person lived here, and he was lucky enough that person was Enjolras.

Grantaire unwrapped the papers from his coat and set them carefully on the writing desk.

Enjolras smiled. He was relieved that their hours-long work had made it. The sight of it gave Grantaire a woozy rush. "Thank you," Enjolras said, and sat down, pulling himself up close to his desk. "It's been tiresome work. I can complete this on my own."

Grantaire failed to hide his frown. "It's fine," he said, hoping his voice would produce how he wanted to feel: confident, dominant in the wording. But, instead it was pleading.

The corner of Enjolras' lip twitched, and Grantaire couldn't place the swallowed emotion; was it discontent? Annoyance? It didn't matter. If Grantaire left at this point, he would die from misery, not pneumonia.

Enjolras sighed. He took a glance at his pocket watch. It felt cold in his fingers. "I haven't enough room for you to work anywhere."

"The floor is fine. I sketch on the floor. I'm used to the feeling, perhaps I even work better on it."

Another sigh. "Do as you wish." And Enjolras outstretched his arm and held out the papers.

Time passed, and Enjolras had become too tired to flick his wrist when it began to cramp. He worked through the pain. Every so often, Grantaire on the floor would stir. He had tried a number of positions -- resting on his stomach, kneeling over on his knees, even at one point with his ass in the air, on his elbows, writing. Enjolras only gave him a small glance whenever the floorboards squealed beneath him. Grantaire glanced at Enjolras constantly. Noted how one hand held a pen, the other held up his chin and cheek; his blonde, curled hair had become slightly frizzy, now that it had dried haphazardly from the rain. His breathing was even and deep, and he seemed to slouch even further, each time Grantaire glanced over.

Grantaire was almost finished. One large pile of blank paper had been transferred to a now even grander account of completed letters. He felt drowsy, but content. He leaned over his freshest piece of paper and began writing  _ COMRADE _ in curled, swooping lettering.  _ THE PEOPL _ —

There was a loud bang, a hollow, staccato noise that resounded in an echo around the half-empty room. Grantaire startled, his pen dropping, his body shot upward, eyes turned immediately to Enjolras.

The sight of Enjolras' face against his desk lasted only a half of a second, and then it quickly, as if it had bounced, shot upward, his eyes back open, his face looking equally shocked and pained. A red mark, and a splash of ink, had christened his pale forehead. The boy had hit his face on the desk.

Grantaire stared, taking in the sight with raised eyebrows and mouth ajar. "Good God!" His words were choked, laughter brimming at the last syllable. "Are you  _ alright _ ?"

Enjolras winced and groaned, having been startled awake— and with a good shock of a headache, no less. He looked at Grantaire.

And laughed.

It sounded marvelous. A mirthful set of fits worth more than the voice of whatever singer was haunting the Opera. Grantaire gaped, his heart dropping to his stomach where it bobbed like a buoy. Enjolras covered his face with his hands and leaned forward on his elbows, his shoulders shaking.

Whom had ever heard him laugh? His mother, only when he was a child. Combeferre, only once when they were first-year students. And now, in the early morning: Grantaire. One of the few witnesses to the phenomenon. It was miraculous.

The five second moment lifted Grantaire to his feet. He walked, transfixed, to Enjolras' side and put his hand against a now-still shoulder. "Let me see your forehead," Grantaire was smiling. He felt so completely drunk off of it. Even though Enjolras' face had returned to its usual pallor and expression, Grantaire felt that his laugh lines looked deeper, his brow much less set. It looked beautiful on him.

Grantaire touched, gently, the side of Enjolras' face and turned it to look at him; Enjolras let him, his eyes casting upward to meet Grantaire's gaze. The ink was still there, but the red mark on his forehead, left by contact with the wood, was fading. With his free hand, Grantaire licked his thumb and wiped away the ink smear. "You should sleep."

"I'm very awake now."

Grantaire cracked a laugh. "Yes, I'm sure you are." His hand remained. It was so nice, how his fingertips felt from the warmth of Enjolras' cheek. Suddenly, Grantaire felt very daring. The thump of his blood in his ears, he parted his lips. "Come to bed," he whispered.

The spell was broken. Enjolras lifted a hand to push Grantaire's grip away. "Finishing these letters are more important."

The rejection hurt far more than Enjolras' other snaps and bites, and Grantaire felt the disappointment well up inside of him and drag out the great melancholy that had been lingering behind the curtain. Grantaire stepped away, his boots resounding with each step. "These letters won't do a damn," he spat. "We could write hundreds of letters, and not only send them to our classmates at the Sorbonne, but to all of the universities of France. And hundreds of students could come, in droves, to rally."

Grantaire was pacing now, pointing his finger at the audacious propaganda stacked haphazardly on the desk, "And those letters could bring them here, but good Christ, what are students against armed militia? And if by some ungodly force we live, some  _ deus ex machina _ , will our fresh faces take up government seats if we could even reach a new republic? And who will be at the head of all of this if so? But, no matter! In the end, there is always a king, regardless of how you term him. No one called Robespierre a king to his little face, but the man still dictated a new religion. France still allowed him to put on his parades and cloak himself in gold. What is that saying even God put in his holy book? 'The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun."'

Enjolras watched him pace, his fingers drummed against wood. "Then so be it," he said, once Grantaire had quieted. "If what must be changed must be changed again, I welcome it. May it always seek progress. I do not seek glory. I don't want my name in any books. Whatever I yearn to bring about, what the  _ people _ yearn to bring about," he pushed himself from his chair and stood, "May it be changed if it should fall from what is good and what is honest. Perhaps we revolve in circles, but somewhere, there is a reprieve. If we can only bring about change in one generation," he walked to Grantaire, standing before him at only a foot's length distance, "Or promise enough food and freedom for only a an hour, a decade, a century, I accept it humbly. But I will die knowing that we gave inspiration for the next. And so, I continue on."

Grantaire could feel it— the stinging behind his eyes, the hollow-feeling, unfamiliar ache of fluttering hope in a grimy future. How it made his chest feel heavy with trapped breath. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again.

"I just. . ." he felt so vulnerable, so small in front of Enjolras and his dazzling future and uncompromising heroism. Grantaire's flair of anger and cynicism had been quenched, if only for an evening. Grantaire swallowed. He stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and rested his forehead against the space between Enjolras' neck and shoulder. "Please, don't die for nothing."

Enjolras stiffened, momentarily, before he rested a hand against the back of Grantaire's shoulder. "This isn't for nothing," he said quietly. Grantaire could hear the pointed murmur so close to his ear. It sent a shiver down his spine and was sure Enjolras had felt him shake from beneath his palm.

How long, Grantaire wondered, would it be before the energetic whispers of the word "revolution" became chants at the Musain? How long until they would be settling payments at gun shops, or counting the heads of all committed revolutionists?

Enjolras shifted the weight in his feet. He was getting antsy; the intimate position had gone on for a time too long. Grantaire lifted his head and gave a sad smile. His eyes fluttered, briefly, to look at the lips so close to him. “To work then,” said Grantaire.

“To work,” Enjolras agreed quietly, moving away and, in very few steps, back to his desk. Grantaire returned to the floor, back to his letters. He managed to finish four before he cradled his head in an arm and passed out.

 

 

An hour later, he awoke to a hand on his shoulder. “Grantaire.” Enjolras was stooped on his heels beside him, dressed in only his undershirt and trousers. Grantaire sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Proof I can do all activities on the floor,” he yawned.

“I’m sure.” said Enjolras. His voice was a whisper. “The letters are finished.”

Grantaire glanced over at where his own letters had been piled on the flooring. They were gone. But the paper-pile on the desk had grown. “Your hand must hurt.”

“Indeed.” Enjolras stood. “But still not as much as my head.”

Grantaire smiled, and pushed himself off from the floorboards. He stood, swaying slightly, as he stretched his arms upward to crack his spine. Then, a silence fell between them, something odd and palpable. After some deliberation, Grantaire cleared his throat. “Should I go?”

Enjolras glanced out the window; an unnecessary action, as the sound of rain was enough of its proof, but he felt the need to play indecisive. “It’s still raining,” he said simply.  

Grantaire’s chest and head felt airy again. “Will you spare me from that?”

“If you sleep on the floor,”

“Yes.” Grantaire’s face lit up. He didn’t care if he had to sleep in the closet; he was allowed to stay.

Enjolras glanced at him, then to the grand stack of finished letters, and then to his own bed. Grantaire watched his lips purse very slightly in thought. Finally, Enjolras sighed, “No, there should be enough room in the bed. Let’s go to sleep.”

Grantaire could cry, or laugh; he wasn’t sure which emotion he wanted to express more, so he chose to give way to neither. Instead, he nodded dumbly, and, as he watched Enjolras blow out candles and complete his nightly routine, he held his balance against the bed and stripped off his vest and his trousers.

Grantaire climbed into the bed first and pushed himself to its far corner, against the wall. He watched the single lit candle, docked in Enjolras’ hand, pass throughout the room (stopping near the letters to get one last look over, pausing beside the wash basin). Finally, Enjolras set the candle on top of the dresser, near his side of the bed, and climbed in.

Grantaire faced him. “Thank you,” he whispered, “For not casting me out to the rain.”

Enjolras smirked, “Don’t make me regret it. Goodnight, Grantaire.” He leaned over and blew out the candle.

Grantaire slept fitfully. He dreamed of Enjolras hung dead, upside down, from the gallows. Then of Enjolras, dressed in white, being unloaded from a cart to the guillotine. Of Enjolras on the cobblestone, shirt open, chest exposing a bullet wound, red and seeping. In his dreams, he smelled gunpowder, and vomit, and burnt flesh, and the tang of paint, as if all of this had been an artwork of Grantaire’s own creation.

It always surprised him, when he would awake from these dreams, to feel the presence of a warm and breathing body beside him. Still alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Place da la Concorde - Executions by guillotine were a public event until the 1900's. While the location of these executions were moved throughout the years, by the 1830s, the guillotine--and its crowds--had settled here, in one of Paris' premier parks.
> 
> Dionysus - Greek God of wine and merriment.
> 
> Fortuna - Roman Goddess of, you guessed it: luck and fortune. She is usually portrayed as possessing a cornucopia, aka horn of plenty.
> 
> Citoyen - French for "citizen." During the Reign of Terror following the French Revolution, people were strongly encouraged to forgo the use of monsieur, madam, etc., and replace titles with only "citoyen."
> 
> Dieus ex Machina - A trope sometimes used in tragedies, wherein a sudden saving force arrives to, almost magically, resolve any issue.
> 
> Robespierre - One of the most influential people during the French Revolution and the subsequent Reign of Terror. His influence was so great, he was able to decree a new religion called The Cult of the Supreme Being.
> 
> 'The thing that hath been . . .' - Ecclesiasties 1:9
> 
> Well, remember when I said in my last end notes that I intended for this to mainly be written in the form of short, vignette-like chapters? That's gone out the window. Thank you so very much for your continued reading, and for all of the kind comments and kudos left. Truly, they give me the drive to keep going, so thank you so so very much. Next chapter should be out very soon!


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere between sleeping fits — those ins and outs of drowsy wakefulness and horrendous sleep — Grantaire realized that Enjolras was sitting up beside him, awake, holding a book close to his face. He squinted into it, an attempt to read the murky letters despite the gloomy pre-dawn.

Grantaire shifted in the bed to lay on his side and face him. Cheek against the pillow, he breathed in deeply; inhaling clean-smelling sheets that must have been washed somewhere in the week. He wasn’t accustomed to waking up beside another person, despite his best efforts. And, he was sure Enjolras, by way  _ of  _ his best efforts, was the same. But, there was an undeniable goodness to not waking up alone. More warmth in the bed, for one. Yet blessed among that was a calm in the early day that loneliness could never harbor.

Grantaire cleared his throat, but his voice still came out gravely. He smiled haphazardly. “Good morning.”

Enjolras kept his eyes fixated on his book. He thumbed the edge of a page. “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” It was an apparent lie, made obvious by the deep bags beneath his eyes and the position Grantaire had seen him in throughout the night: crammed strictly to his allotted side, almost dangling off the edge of the bed... there was no possible scenario one could sleep soundly in such a way. But, Grantaire had been the same. In a desperate attempt to not disturb Enjolras (and thus, maybe, retain the blessing of being allowed to stay frequently), he had set himself almost flat against the wall, leaving a vacant no-man’s land in the center of the bed.

“I slept horribly,” admitted Grantaire, without being prompted. He had no use for polite niceties. “I had the most creative nightmares. You dying in every sort of way.”

Enjolras smirked, and turned a page. “So you have a grudge against me then?”

“No, no, quite the opposite. Perhaps I care too much about you. I called them nightmares, after all”

“Hm.”

Grantaire stared vacantly at the exposed skin of Enjolras’ neck, and then to the book between his pale fingers. The author’s name was Slavic-looking; its cover a rusted orange tone, with uneven pages slapped against the spine. Grantaire knew it was a translated book borrowed from Feuilly.

“Your apartment smells like a bakery,” said Grantaire suddenly.

“I live almost on top of one.”

“A miracle you are neither poor nor fat from it. Good God, I’m never hungry in the morning, but that smell of bread could do me in.”

Enjolras cracked a small smile and dogeared his place in the book before setting it aside. “It’s appealing,” he agreed, and settled himself back into bed. He laid flat on his spine, and threw an arm across his eyes. “I tried talking to the owner and the workers there; the amount of bread they have left over could feed dozens. Think, even, of using it to feed the citizens who join us to revolt. I’m sure the national guard would try to cut off supplies, like food—“

“And how swiftly did they ask you to leave?”

“Quite quickly.”

Grantaire laughed. For every person who saw Enjolras as a modern Alexander, there must have been another who saw him as a hysteric.

There was only a small distance between them. The vast gap they had both been so completely concerned with throughout the night had now become moot. Enjolras, in his spot, breathed evenly, lips slightly parted. Grantaire watched his chest rise and fall. “But man cannot live on bread alone,” Grantaire whispered.

“Then perhaps I can convince a  _ boucherie _ .”

“No, a winery, preferably.”

Enjolras lifted his arm up by a small inch and glanced over at Grantaire. “The priorities of a drunkard.”

“Someday I pray you understand my humor. You are missing out on a great joy by not.”

Enjolras held his tongue and decided, instead, to put his energy into shifting in the bed, to lay on his side, his back to Grantaire. Christ, he was tired. Grantaire hummed from behind him before asking: “What time is it?”

“Barely dawn,” said Enjolras. He hadn’t dreamt of much in the night, but the bed had shaken each time Grantaire had startled awake, rousing him from sleep every other hour. He wanted nothing more, now, than to lay spread out beneath the covers and sleep. At least one more hour. Maybe two, if he was willing to feel guilty for sleeping in.

Grantaire remained where he was, facing Enjolras’ back. He leaned his body forward, settling his forehead against the base of a warm neck. The hair brushed against his eyelids. “Let me sleep a bit more,” sighed Grantaire. “Let me sleep here.”

“Do whatever you want,” said Enjolras. His tired voice had lost its edge.

  
  


They had slept for an hour by the time Enjolras had finally gained enough consciousness to notice the arm slung over his chest and the damp, hot breath against his neck. It was abnormal, but not unpleasant since it combated the chill. In the morning haze, he settled into it and watched, with half-lidded eyes, his white window curtain illuminate with light. Noise from the streets had begun to filter into the room, slipping in through the drafty spaces between the floorboards and the door. It was greatly unlike his childhood, where the dark, heavy curtains could allow him to sleep until noon if he so wished (though he never did), and the only noises were the hushed movements of his parents’ maids. An idyllic upbringing, but a naïve, selfish, and purposeless one. Even his own mother had gone insane from the indulgent monotony of it.

Grantaire sighed happily beside him. He was awake, but gladly remained in his place, clinging to Enjolras. “So you’re awake now too,” he said.

Enjolras continued to stare at the curtain. “Why do you study art?” he asked very suddenly.

“Hm?”

“Why do you study art?”

“Such a curious question for so early in the morning. Why do you study law? What sort of question is this when we’re still only half-awake?”

“I study law because it can contribute to society, for both the whole and the individual.”

“A textbook answer,” mused Grantaire. “I study art because I am abhorrent at mathematics, and I am too uninspired by the supposed good of constitutions and ideologies. So I reach my lack of talents forth, into the only area that, at worse, stains my best suits with paint, and at best, gives me a small, rare glimmer of happiness.” He paused. “Well, currently it isn’t. I’m working on this portrait now and I can’t seem to get the hands of my subject right; absolutely frustrates me, each time I try it.”

Grantaire’s breath against his ear felt odd. Nice, almost. “Art has no purpose but momentary happiness or frustration, then.”

“I’m sure the paintings of Jacques-Louis David leave more of a lasting effect. Do they not even reach your soul? There is no hope for you then.”

“Jacques-Louis David,” sighed Enjolras, “Painted the death of Marat, and the final image of Marie Antoinette before she fell to the guillotine. Then, a stone’s throw of years later, he painted Napoleon in glorious attire, crowned in royal furs and gold. His loyalty is to the most esteemed donor, as I’m sure is true of most artists.”

“Somehow we need to afford to eat,” Grantaire said in good humor. “But don’t worry about my loyalty. As long as I’m in consort with you, I doubt I’ll live long enough to sell a painting.”

Enjolras craned his neck to look at Grantaire from over his shoulder, narrowing his brows in a confused frustration.

“Come,” said Grantaire, responding by jerking him tighter. “Let me jest. Your mood was so much better earlier this morning. I wonder what you dreamt of that disturbed you so.”

“Your hard prick against my back is what is disturbing me.”

“Oh,” Grantaire hadn’t even realized. He let out a curt laugh. “I would apologize, but if there’s any bit of humanity in you, I’m sure you can understand it’s a typical morning’s curse. I’m sure you’re suffering from it as well.”

Enjolras replied, rather dryly, “I am. It’s normal.”

“Of course.” Now Grantaire could feel his face becoming warm. Enjolras’ mere “ _ I am _ ” — that little admittance of the presence beneath the thin material of Enjolras’ white undershirt — was enough to give Grantaire a woozy sort of rush that he had lacked moments beforehand. It would be so easy to simply trace his hand lower.  He would love to feel Enjolras’ back arch back from the touch. Without meaning to, he sighed deeply against blonde curls. “May I confirm it?” Grantaire whispered.

Enjolras paused. Then, after short consideration: “You may.”

Grantaire’s hand advanced slowly, fingers tracing fine shirt material, brushing against the dips and hollows of Enjolras’ chest, ribs, and stomach. He brought his hand lower and closed his eyes, snaking beneath cloth until finally finding a home against the warmth of a swollen cock. Enjolras twitched from the touch.

Grantaire curled his body further around him, pressing his pelvis against Enjolras’ ass, and groaned. A hot, damp exhalation of breath that settled sweetly between Enjolras’ neck and ear. Enjolras rocked back, by either purpose or to only re-position, Grantaire couldn’t be sure. But it produced a shudder down Grantaire’s spine and an unapologetic desperation that gave way to his hand groping harder, gently pressuring Enjolras back further against Grantaire’s crotch.

“Christ,” he breathed and ground his pelvis against Enjolras. “I could come on you just like this, if you let me.”

“Don’t,” said Enjolras, even-toned, calm as ever.

Grantaire was unfazed. He was still rocking, very slightly, against Enjolras. Rutting for any kind of perverse release. “Please,” he whispered and pressed his lips against the base of Enjolras’ neck. “Let me fuck you.”

Grantaire felt Enjolras’ body stiffen at the thought, his shoulder shuddered, and if Grantaire could see his face, he was sure it was one of bewilderment. Even though, honestly, the request shouldn’t have come as a shock. Enjolras turned, switching his body to rest on his left side, so that he could face Grantaire.

Grantaire, in turn, desperate to silence whatever ‘No’ Enjolras may spit, scooted forward, throwing his arms around Enjolras into a tight embrace, and pressed his lips against his jaw, his neck, near the lobe of his ear, and then, daringly, at the edge of his lips. Arms still slung tightly around him, Grantaire hoisted himself up, pulling Enjolras from his side to his back and Grantaire, straddling his hips, loomed above him, pressing his lips now to a warm forehead.

“I think of it every morning,” Grantaire uttered, his voice low and thick with gravel. “How desperate I am to fuck you. I think about the morning after you fucked me, how when you would move your head, I could see the bruises my fingers left upon your neck. All day I thought of it; I thought about bending you over one of the Musain’s tables, or fucking you against the wall.”

Enjolras glared up at him. The corner of his lips twitched. “You should have better things to think about.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire conceded. “Please, Enjolras, let me. Give me proof Heaven exists. I can go gladly to death after this.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. The dramatics were nauseating. He sat up and tugged at his long undershirt where Grantaire had so boldly sat upon. Grantaire scrambled off. Now free, Enjolras pulled it up and over his head before relaxing back onto the bed. “Fine," he said, "Go ahead.”

“ _ God _ ,” Grantaire gaped, pressing a hand to his face, astonished, yet grinning. He threw off his own sleep shirt and situated himself between Enjolras’ legs, hoisting them around his hips. Gently, he placed an open palm in front of Enjolras’ mouth. “Spit,” he said, and Enjolras did, before Grantaire added his own to his palm as well. He coated his cock in the mixture.

Grantaire positioned himself, pressing the head of his cock against Enjolras. His breath wasn’t steady; it was sputtering and excited, much like his hips that were desperate to jut forward.

“I can rock myself in slowly,” said Grantaire, despite his body begging him to do anything other than that. “Then it won’t hurt as much.”

Enjolras, from beneath him, shook his head. His expression was one of unimpressed passivity; half-lidded eyes, straight-set lips, a cocked brow. But, his chest rose and fell too quickly — caused by a tinge of anxiety or exhilaration, or a mixture of both. “I spared no such unneeded gentleness for you,” he said. “Now, stop treating me like some fragile object.”

Grantaire only nodded, before he licked his lips, furrowed his brow, and pressed forward, entering with a small groan. Enjolras’ body lurched from beneath him. His hand slapped onto Grantaire’s shoulder and squeezed, his nails pressing into skin, and a curse hissed through his gritted teeth. Grantaire kissed Enjolras’ neck and steadied his weight onto his bent elbows. And moved.

“You are better,” moaned Grantaire, “Than any manna from heaven, any priestess of Aphrodite —“

“Stop — ah...  _ fuck _ — with the romantics.”

“Then you are but a whore from Marseille. . .”

“Stop. It.” Enjolras reached a hand up, fingers quickly curling into a thick mass of Grantaire’s hair, and pulled hard. Grantaire’s head bobbed with the motion.

Despite the pain, Grantaire grinned, hips still moving. “I don’t fuck in silence.”

Enjolras was writhing beneath him. “You’ll ruin whatever minuscule enjoyment I’m getting from this.”

“Touch yourself.” Grantaire pulled the hand wrapped in his hair downward, guiding it to its own cock. And Enjolras did.

“I have —  _ mhm _ — to know,” said Grantaire, through small gasps. “Do you also think often about the last time we fucked?”

“No.” said Enjolras. He closed his eyes, finally easing into the duel feeling of Grantaire in him, and his own hand moving around himself.

“You never- _ ah _ touched yourself to the thought of it?”

“No.” That little ‘o’ that Enjolras’ lips had formed last time began to be replicated—that look of concentration, of elsewhere-ness—had settled into his expression.

Grantaire would think of his own actions later and still be unable to decide what it was that made him move as he did. If it was born from an annoyance of Enjolras’ “No’s,” or a desperation for any reaction from the other man, or if Grantaire had, almost innocently, been carried away by the thrill of not only this time, but also of the wild and unrestrained perversion of the past.

Whatever the ethos or logos behind it, mid-fuck, Grantaire raised his hand as high as his eyes and smeared a hard, flat-handed smack against Enjolras’ left cheek, the sound echoing against the walls.

Enjolras startled. His eyes snapped open. “ _ Merde _ !” he howled, his lips curling. Grantaire fucked him harder, slapping himself against Enjolras to the hilt. And Enjolras could feel it, the high-paced adrenaline, the sting to his face, the spring being loaded and ready to jump. And he reached out his only free hand and rested it against Grantaire’s cheek, and came, his back arching, eyes looking downward, watching his spunk hit Grantaire’s stomach.

Grantaire groaned. He lasted only a minute longer, and collapsed, panting, onto the body beneath him.

Everything but their heartbeats felt quiet. Even the noise outside had gained a relaxing hum. Grantaire, savoring it all, wrapped his arms around Enjolras, and buried his head against his neck.

He felt like crying. He felt like wailing. He felt like embracing this human being until the pressure made him crack and fragment. And Grantaire could blame the sleeplessness, or the release of an orgasm, but it felt as if the sob that begged to emerge had been lying dormant for weeks. He realized: he could die here now and be happier than any damn moment of his life. His eyes pinched and he let out a ragged breath.

Enjolras, for his part, had some semblance of kindness in him brought on by exhaustion and vulnerability. He rested an arm across Grantaire’s back, and allowed his head to loll to the side, allowing space for Grantaire’s face to settle neatly against him. Finally, he felt something wet and warm against his neck — tears? — and Grantaire embraced him tighter.

Enjolras stared up at the ceiling, considering the death of Hyacinthus.

  
  


By the time they had cleaned themselves, Grantaire had returned to his usual energy and wit. Now clothed and at the table, he took a bite of bread — a meager breakfast, but good enough.

“I can confirm,” he began, pointing the bread toward Enjolras, who sat at the other end of the small table. “No night — or dawn, in our case — of sex is ever complete without a breakfast together.”

“I see,” said Enjolras. He was more interested in getting further in Feuilly’s book, which was spread out before him.

“I will bet my soul on this: for all of millennia, humans will awake from the aftershocks of orgasm together, and it is customary — nay, it should be law, even, at this point — for the owner of the home to offer his temporary mate some bread before sending them on their way. Look at you, Enjolras, a virgin to this experience, and yet you feed me your food by mere instinct. It is ingrained into us, much like a fish to swim.”

Enjolras turned a page and then said, “There are things I need to do today.” His most kind attempt at saying: leave.

“Again, my point is clear: you do not tell me this until after you are sure I have eaten.”

A hearty knock on the door — cheery in its three melodic bangs — ended the conversation. Without fuss, Enjolras stood, quickly brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, and opened the door, revealing Courfeyrac on the other side.

“A very good morning to you,” he sang, slapping Enjolras on the shoulder and striding in. His eyes quickly caught Grantaire, whom, mouth still half-full with bread, waved with a wicked glee. “And a good morning to you as well, R.” He laughed aloud, truly shocked at the sight before him. And then, his nose crinkled.

“It smells like sex in here.”

“I have just returned from the brothel,” said Grantaire with a grin.

“At . . . Eight in the morning?”

“The whores like me very much.”

“My neighbors,” interjected Enjolras, even-toned and assured. He passed by them both to rest a hand on the completed letters from the night before. “These are why Grantaire is here so early.”

“Ah,” said Courfeyrac, nodding. “Yes, and I forgot you live next to rabbits.” Whether he truly believed Enjolras’ excuse, or simply chose to pretend to, he continued: “How many children do they have now? Ten?”

“Nine.”

“Well, it will be ten soon.” He clapped a hand on his thigh. “But let’s carry on, our professor will be cross if we are late again, my friend.”

“Indeed,” said Enjolras, whom now held all of his needed items. He looked to Grantaire, who haphazardly stood in wake of the brief eye-contact and grabbed for his coat.

The rain had halted in the night, leaving deep, murky puddles in its stead. Grantaire caught a glimpse of his reflection in one, noting his wiry lump of hair and slumped expression. Courfeyrac and Enjolras offered him a small goodbye, no more than a few words, before they disappeared down the other end of the street.

For the first time, Grantaire wished he had the audacity to study law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boucherie - Butcher shop
> 
> Hyacinthus - From mythology. Hyacinth was a beautiful youth and lover of the god Apollo. In their tragic myth, Apollo and Hyacinthus took turns throwing a discus. Hyacinth ran to catch it to impress Apollo, but was struck by the discus as it fell to the ground, and died.
> 
> -
> 
> Enjoy whatever semblance of fluff while you can . . . Thank you, thank you, and thank you again for reading and for all the kind kudos and comments!!!! <3 I'll be sure to get the next chapter out soon. Ciao!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for this late update! I began medical school very recently, so it's been a *bit* busy lately. But worry not, I don't plan on abandoning this story, nor diverting from updating frequently. Thank you so much for your continued reading, comments, and patience. <3

It was beginning to become a common sight for Grantaire’s landlord when, in the middle of the morning, Grantaire would appear, dressed in the same clothes from the night before.

Grantaire had become too comfortable; too assured of his place in Enjolras’ bed. The early weeks of spring had left him feeling pleasant. From beneath his chest and stomach murmured spastic, little bubbles of excitement and delight, bursting and popping like champagne. 

“I feel as if I am Hermes,” said Grantaire with a flourish to his landlord whenever he passed. “With wings attached to my feet. I float between both human and divine worlds.”  

  
  


The letters had gone out promptly, pressed into the palms of students from all varying studies and faces. A flurry of letters seemed to infiltrate the Latin Quarter, reaching out to the student houses near the Seine, or into the lecture halls. By the week's end, Courfeyrac announced gladly that his impromptu salon— dictated in the letters as a welcoming for all interested citizens in a better France— had been attended by a flourishing mass. 

Enjolras was delighted. In the weeks that followed, he had gained an assured ease; and with that, he was able to give only a sigh and a nod of the head when Grantaire would take to appearing, randomly, in front of his apartment late at night.

"Those two brothers in our class, the ones we have been eyeing for quite a while," mused Courfeyrac over a sip of black, black coffee. "They attended my little lecture, and have continued to attend them since. I think we both know they would be beneficial."

"Invite them to the Musain," said Enjolras. 

It was a special invitation. While Les Amis de l'ABC maintained pivotal contact with outside groups, persons, and sources, their tiny hub in the back room had remained private and small. To allow in insiders was a measured tactic, one that hadn't been extended since Courfeyrac dragged in Marius. And when the brothers came, their clothes well-starched, their hats neatly tucked beneath their arms, they gravitated, naturally, toward the unreserved magnetism that Grantaire offered. A cup of wine was produced for each, and they were pulled to the corner table of the room, caught deep in the throes of exhaustive jargon and political apathy hours before they were stirred away and came to speak to Enjolras and Courfeyrac. 

"We have decided," said one, "That, perhaps, this is not our strong suit. That, perhaps, this is a route we shall focus on when our studies end. That, perhaps, it is better to enjoy life for a while, in our youthful glory, before committing to treason." 

And they left. Enjolras felt a headache oncoming. Courfeyrac clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and said, "Tsk." 

Thwarted. Thwarted by Grantaire's cesspool of a mouth. The sight of his classmates in Grantaire's area had worried Enjolras; he realized, with every bit of great annoyance, that he was right to have been. 

"What has happened?" asked Combeferre, coming up from behind them. He placed a hand on each of their backs. 

"It seems our Grantaire is very persuasive." Courfeyrac, too, it seemed, had been wary of Grantaire's influence. 

"If only he could be persuasive in things other than miserable pursuits and ineptitude," said Enjolras hotly. He stride forward, crossing the room with set shoulders. Courfeyrac and Combeferre trailed after him. 

"Enjolras," called Courfeyrac. "Consider, please, being a bit more gentle than you intend."

He was ignored. 

With the strangers gone, Grantaire found all of his intention, now, with Marius and Bahorel in the far corner of the room. “Hah! Come now, Marius, eyes open," he was laughing, "You must listen to me, this is entirely important; perhaps the most important lesson of your youth. See here— no, do not avert your eyes— see here is the work of Achille Deveria. Marius.  _ Pay attention _ . I have heard of your forlorn expressions, I know there must be a woman out there to whom you've lost your heart to. Now, look, this is how you impress that woma—"

Enjolras' grip on his shoulder stopped Grantaire mid-sentence. He looked up, and caught eyes of fury. 

"Oh," said Grantaire. "Enjolras. So you've come to our little table. You look upset. Does Achille Deveria bother you as well?" 

"Why do you come here?” bit Enjolras. Grantaire's mouth gaped. He hadn't expected an inquisition. 

From the other side of the table, Bahorel snorted, "Because there is good wine and good friends here," he said.

But Grantaire's voice was stronger, more assured and pointed. Eyes still trained upward, he said: "Because you are here." 

Enjolras frowned. "You do me no service.”

"I would do you any service. Whatever you ask of me."

"Then I will tell you of what service you achieved. Here you are, standing guard at the scaffold of the stair, here only because it is nearest to the bar. I daren't remove you from here, as how much more different would that be from removing a newborn from its mother's breast? But you, ever present, managed in your mirth to ensnare the two men whom we had been in need of. You offered them wine, of that I don't care; but you offered them your cynicism, which they took upon as their own. And see now, they are gone."

Grantaire's eyes widened. "Forgive me," He said. "It had not been done on purpose." 

"Indeed, as you lack all purpose. And you drag along with you, others into your purposelessness."

"Come now," interjected Combeferre, finally taking pity. "If they can be so easily swayed within an hour by Grantaire, then I am sure Courfeyrac can personally speak to them for two hours and sway them back again. Such is the way with fickle men." 

But Enjolras' glare remained fixed and, Grantaire, in his stead, retained his own sorry gaze, his neck exposed, hands folded in his lap, eyes wide, lips pulled down. Looking at him from across the table, Marius thought he had seen a similar figure, once, painted along the walls of a cathedral; a saint looking to heaven in prayer to God. 

Courfeyrac sighed and took Enjolras by the arm. "Come," he said. "You've made your point." 

Grantaire remained quiet for the rest of the evening.

  
  


By way of simple imitation, the group decided to leave the Musain together. The boys donned their coats and left in a mass; and as with all gatherings, they dawdled along the front of the cafe, one foot pointed in the direction of their homes, the other pointed to the friends they slowly said goodbye to.    


Grantaire stood beside Bahorel and Joly. Upon seeing Grantaire cast yet another forlorn look towards Enjolras, they both slung an arm around his broad shoulders. 

“Do not be so sullen,” whispered Bahorel. “Those two men, they seemed too proper and stiff. They would never dirty their hands with progress.”

“What is the importance of them, I wonder,” sighed Grantaire. 

“Guns,” said Joly. Grantaire felt his stomach churn, his face grow hot. “Combeferre told me after lecture some days ago. They’re brothers, and their father manufactures guns. He owns, I believe, an entire workhouse for their production. ” 

Bahorel cocked an eyebrow. “Huh.” 

When in these last days, Grantaire wondered, had Enjolras begun planning for arms? When had ammunition come into question? Never during those late night hours spanning into twilight, never when Grantaire arrived and stretched himself languid on the bed. Never when Grantaire threaded his fingers through yellow curls, pressed his lips against a milky, inner thigh. 

Yet their time together was becoming only carnal, Grantaire began to realize. Enjolras and he said little to one another in these instances. Their bodies moved more than their lips. 

He figured, perhaps, for Enjolras such nights were similar to bloodletting, extracting that immorality that latched deep in every human’s soul. And perhaps for himself, he had been afraid to break the spell, that his words would chase away whatever dream he had stirred from the clouds of Olympus. 

He thought of those stupid fops and their father’s guns; of course, somehow, Grantaire’s mouth did get the better of him. 

Some feet away, he watched Enjolras bid a solemn farewell to Combeferre. 

“I will go now,” said Grantaire to his friends. “Back to Hades, to join Persephone; for my true realm is the underworld, I visit you cherubs only in limited hours.” 

“Go then,” nodded Joly. “And when will we next see you?”

“I will ask Hades,” joked Grantaire, but he failed to smile. He stepped back with grace and bowed deeply, throwing an arm out to the side with a dedicated panache. “Gentlemen.” And he took off, down a street parallel to the one Enjolras had taken. He knew Paris, and he knew Paris well; by the time he could cut left, through an alley, he burst into the very street Enjolras had taken, his figure now close, only a few steps away. 

Grantaire approached him, moving quickly to keep pace. He touched, tentatively, the back of Enjolras’ arm. “I have wronged you,” he said immediately. 

“You don’t think.” said Enjolras without a glance. Grantaire’s sudden presence hadn’t even startled him; he had become used to it after the last few weeks. His legs continued moving. Grantaire fell into pace. “You only speak. You never think of repercussions.”

“On the contrary, I think too much and too often, such is why I am prone to bursts. I ask you to forgive me; I am not you, I am no perfect being here to do the work of a lazy god.” 

“I’ve never sought perfection,” Enjolras chided. “I ask only for a friend who isn’t daft enough to chase away comrades with his cynicism.” 

“I knew nothing of these men, how was I to know to tread carefully?”

“You know the workings of our group; you know when a new face appears it is either one welcomed due to trust, or because they could be vital.”

Grantaire halted. “Clearly, you do not trust my judgement. Clearly, I am not vital to you. Then, why do you allow  _ me _ there?” He hadn’t meant to sound so pathetic, or turn the conversation toward his own self-loathing. He winced at the sound of his own voice. 

Enjolras stopped, some steps away from Grantaire, and turned to face him. His lips settled into a thin line. His brow relaxed. He seemed no longer angry, just… weary. He pressed a palm to the space between his brows. “I don’t know,” he sighed. 

It was a truth. A truth he mulled over not only in the back room of the Musain, but in the moments Grantaire latched onto him, breathing hotly in his ear. But, most painfully, he thought of it as he glanced at the faces of the hungry, as they curled together tightly beneath bridges, beneath carts, beside their children dying of Cholera; he thought of it as he took in the color of their skin, the pock marks on their faces, the growling of their stomachs, the way their fingers unfurled from their palms— wispy, dirty things, coming apart like petals from a dying flower— as they begged for bread. And in the midst of their sorrows, Enjolras had been wasting his time fucking Grantaire into the mattress.    


He felt it necessary, not for Grantaire, but for himself, to sigh again and repeat, “I don’t know why.”

Grantaire shifted on his feet and frowned. “Don’t doubt my loyalty to you; you may doubt my cleverness, you may doubt my diligence. You may doubt many things about me, as I, too, often doubt myself. But I beg you to never doubt my loyalty to you. And for that reason, please keep me by your side.” 

Enjolras sighed. A carriage rattled by, its old wheels bouncing on cobblestone. When the noise disappeared around the street corner, Enjolras spoke, “You’re not understanding what’s important. I am but a person; do not be loyal to me, be loyal to an ideal, to a future, to betterment.”

“Do you not encompass all of that?” 

“It is different.”

A small breeze pushed through the street. Grantaire watched Enjolras’ hair move with it. The glow of the lamp posts painted them both a hazy orange. 

Grantaire wrapped his arms around himself. Was this the same street he had seen that dead boy two years ago? The one shot by soldiers, in the heat of July, when all of Paris, it seemed, had gone wild with revolt? 

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire quietly, “Why are you needing guns?” 

Enjolras’ brows furrowed for a snap of a second. He crossed his arms and began to walk forward, Grantaire joining beside him. “So you knew, then, about their connections.” 

“No, I was only told after. By Joly.” 

“I see. I am sure you can surmise why, then. The July Revolution was a horror—“ 

“And you wish to continue this same horror? The same bloodshed?”

“—A horror by way of final result. A horror by way of suffering. A horror in that the outcome of this suffering resulted in a slap against the people. I am disillusioned by it.” 

Grantaire stopped and grabbed Enjolras’ arm, halting him. He felt sick. “You want to try again,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to only organize, petition, or speak. You want to arm yourself with a gun, you want to start a revolution.” 

“I don’t want to carry a gun,” Enjolras bit. “I weep to think of the meaning of my finger pulling a trigger. Listen to me, Grantaire, we are not yet in a world where words and peace alone change nations. We are in this terrible realm, where governments react only to action. I will taint myself with sin for this reason, I will call upon evil for the sake of a better outcome. I sacrifice my morality for this purpose; I pray there are no men like me in the future I strive for. A future without revolutionaries with guns. But, we are not there yet.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras sadly. So this was it, then. 

“I will die beside you,” he said. “Take me wherever you go, I will die beside you.” 

Enjolras shook his head. Bravery, he felt, did not suit Grantaire. Nothing could sway him to go so far. “You would not die for anything or anyone,” he said, “As you lack the passion to do so. Such is how little you understand what you say.” Grantaire was all stories and fables; a never-ending soliloquy of parables and romantic words.  

Grantaire shook his head. “One day you will know differently.”

  
  


A candle flickered near the bed, casting dim, dark shadows against the walls of the apartment. Grantaire slept, naked, his face pressed against Enjolras’ arm.

Enjolras watched the shadows without interest. His mind was elsewhere, far from sleep or calm. It wandered deep in the memories of two years ago; it passed by the faces of dead comrades and citizens. It settled back upon the barricade, soaked in the summer heat. Soaked in the spirit of a hopeful second day, when a possibility of the true France, the good France, the fair France, the noble France was palpable. 

He frowned. Grantaire shifted beside him. Enjolras surmised he had achieved nothing of worth that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achille Deveria - A famous portraitist. However, he also has a VERY vast collection of erotic work. 
> 
> -
> 
> Forgive the short chapter; usual length will be returning in the next post.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! A new chapter so soon? Yes, as a thank you for your patience with the short filler-chapter before. 
> 
> A brief warning: there is mention of topics related to suicide below. Proceed at will.
> 
> A huge thank you to the best beta around, Swedishmafiafish!

The nights in Paris had slowly become warmer. Spring’s course was ending; summer was at its cusp.

One cool night in particular, there was a knock at the door, one that was different than that of Grantaire’s. Not that Enjolras had expected Grantaire that night; the man was smart enough to not appear without previous invitation. But Enjolras looked up from his school work nonetheless, eyes narrowing, toward the door to his apartment. It was late at night, perhaps around midnight, if not later (he could remember, faintly, the church bells chiming a new hour some short time ago).

Something important must have happened.

He stood and walked briskly to the large, wooden door, pulling it open quickly, and facing the two men on the other side: Courfeyrac and Combeferre, looking rushed and unkempt; hair awry, cravats half-off.

They must have run through the streets.

“Enjolras,” breathed Combeferre. “There is news.”

“Come in,” Enjolras moved to the side, bringing them in with a familiar touch to each of their shoulders. “Sit down. What is it?”

“Good news,” said Courfeyrac. He leaned over across the small dining table, grinning. “We have more guns. Many guns. We have powder, and what powder we do not have, we have the instructions to make it.”

Enjolras nodded, his eyes and lips steady. He knew the weight of this information.

“As expected,” added Combeferre, “The brothers won’t be joining us, physically; they want to stay out of it. There is no surprise in that. But they offered us connections, workers there, and a promise that it shan’t be noticed if there is a decreased number of guns in their storage.”

“Or,” cut in Courfeyrac, raising his finger, “An increased production in their warehouse. All of this comes by way of their father giving them reign over the factory. He passed the duty to them some days ago. Can you believe it? What luck!”

Combeferre regarded Enjolras over the light of the candle, set in the middle of the table, giving a glow to the faces of all three men. “Friends,” said Combeferre softly, his heart thrusting against his ribcage, “Is this what we want?”

Courfeyrac grew quiet, his smile dissipated. He looked to Enjolras.

Enjolras’ eyes gazed between the two of them. His shoulders squared, his head held high. “It is what France needs,” he said.

Combeferre bowed his head. Courfeyrac nodded. Enjolras stood to walk to a pile of books stacked neatly against the wall; he pulled out from one pile a ledger. He opened it across the table. “As of tonight,” he said, voice low, “Our resources, our comrades, our support . . . our ideal is there. Palpable and ready. Let us be sure to uphold these factions until the day comes when we know it is time to utilize them.” He leafed through the pages, which contained curated lists of contacts, instructions, addresses… His shadow flickered on the wall, heaving back and forth by the movement of the candle light. “We are almost there. Perhaps even by May’s end, there will be the igniting spark.”

“God be with us,” said Combeferre. “We are doing righteous work.”

“And may we find joy before we shoulder this burden,” added Courfeyrac.

Enjolras nodded. From outside his window, the church bells chimed away another hour. Courfeyrac stood, “I will leave now,” he said, “To wander back to my bed and my mistress— no, that is a lie. It is Marius I have sleeping on my floor. Enjolras, I part with you until early tomorrow morning, when I may gather you for our work at the print shop. Combeferre, do you leave as well? For the sake of you both, I recommend it; there may not be many more nights of full sleep ahead of us.”

“Yes,” said Combeferre, standing. He rounded the table to Enjolras and set a hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a brief hug. “Let us at last begin a new dawn.”

“We shall do it together,” responded Enjolras, “With the people.”

 

Morning and, for the first time, instead of awaking to a headache, Grantaire awoke to the chanting of his name outside of the window.

Curiosity pulled him from his bed and he crossed his creaking floor, dropping his morning exhaustion away like a cloak. He parted his blinds and opened his window, giving his skin to the morning chill that came rushing in.

And yet, despite the cold, the morning was one of beauty. Tepid, and bright, and blue. Paris changed when the days began to brighten like summer. The tops of homes and buildings were but textures against the horizon. The world bustled beneath it, women in full dresses, workers trotting by, children, some having escaped from their homes in only their undershirts, at play.

And Jehan and Bossuet, standing just outside a carriage, calling out to Grantaire.

“Ho!” Grantaire shouted back, excitedly. “What is that I see now?”

“Come!” yelled Bossuet. “Save your words for later! Bring all the wine you have!”

Grantaire dressed quickly, rushing through his apartment with an uncoordinated exhilaration. He threw on his trousers, nearly tripping over them as he took to walking briskly toward his vest too soon. He grabbed as many bottles of wine and spirits he could hold, shoving some haphazardly into his moth-eaten pockets (the widened holes, for once, a blessing). And with all dexterity lost, he jogged outside, into the streets of Paris, and to the opulent carriage his friends had found.

By the time of Grantaire’s arrival, Bossuet had hoisted himself to the driver’s seat of the carriage. He held the horse’s reins with a grin. Jehan hung half of his body from the carriage window and waved at Grantaire to come closer.

“I see before me a chariot!” Grantaire laughed gleefully. “Have you brought the sun behind you on your wheels, O gods of Olympus?”

“We are not gods, but devils,” Jehan grinned. For all of his sweetness, he was just as sweetly cheeky.

“Aye,” confirmed Bossuet. “We were at a cafe this morning for breakfast. And lo and behold, whom is it I see before me? Some tables away, already passed out drunk in the mid-morning?”

Jehan laughed, in love with the memory already.

“Well,” continued Bossuet, “None but Joly’s neighbor, and as such, my neighbor! That undaunted man! Yes, I know him well, you see— Grantaire, climb in already! — Anyway, he uses this carriage, charging people ten sous for only a short ride. Ten sous! The scoundrel! But since he was drunk, already well asleep, he left his horse and carriage outside to defend themselves. I knew— we knew, Jehan here and I— immediately that anyone was bound to steal it. So as such, I have borrowed it. To keep it safe until he wakes from his stupor.”

“Utterly brilliant,” said Grantaire, shutting the carriage door behind him. He settled into the fine, soft cushions and sighed happily. “Shall we drink to that, then?”

“Oh, indeed,” said Jehan. Bossuet whipped the horse forward and the carriage rolled down the road. Grantaire uncorked one bottle and hung himself out of the open carriage window, handing it to Bossuet. Then, back inside, he did the same to the next two, handing one to Jehan and saving the other for himself.

They rolled through the streets of Paris, singing gladly to themselves and each other. Clinking full, to half-full, to empty wine bottles as they wove through the city.

The bells chimed; it was twelve in the afternoon.

“It is noon on a Wednesday,” said Jehan suddenly. He stuck his head out of the window and yelled the same to Bossuet, repeating, verbatim, his exact words twice. “And here we are near the Latin Quarter. Listen, fellow vagrants, our good friends finish their work at the printing press around this hour.”

“Which good friends?” called Bossuet.

“Enjolras and Courfeyrac.”

Grantaire grinned and clapped his hands together. “Fantastic!” He laughed. “How had I forgotten? And here I believed I had memorized Enjolras’ schedule. A fine memory you have, Jehan.”

“That is where I first met them, how could I forget?”

“Which street is this building on?” Bossuet yelled over the sounds of the horse and carriage.

“Boulevard Saint-Germain!”

The street was found without hassle, the horse and carriage bringing them past cafes and apartments at a steady speed, its hooves clicking, like music, against cobblestone.

“Oh, look there!” cried Bossuet. Grantaire and Jehan stuck their heads out the window. “How perfectly on time we are; I see two familiar figures ahead, just now leaving the shop!”

Grantaire’s window faced the same side of the street as the printing press. “Bossuet!” he called. “Go up close to them! As close as you can. Slow down the horse when we pass them!”

“As you say, as you say.”

The carriage trotted forward, pulling to the far side of the street as they angled closer. Courfeyrac and Enjolras, whom had exited the shop with ink upon their faces and fingers, lingered outside of the building, talking, briefly, about the news of last night.

Enjolras, whose back had been to the street, watched Courfeyrac’s face suddenly twist into a speechless bewilderment. His mouth gaped. Eyes shone. Enjolras turned, suddenly coming face-to-face with a horse, which passed slowly, carrying a carriage behind it—

With Grantaire, hanging half of his body out the window.

“Love goes toward love as school-boys from their books,” called out Grantaire in heavily accented English. “But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.” His arms jutted forward. The carriage in its stead passed slowly and, in this moment of time, his hands reached out, landing ever-elegantly against the side of Enjolras’ face, into a tender caress that pulled Enjolras’ face forward. Grantaire leaned forward in this instance as well, bringing their lips together in the briefest of kisses.

And the carriage carried on; Grantaire released his grip, having been pulled along with the carriage like a hollow seashell back to sea. He grinned, overjoyed, at the figures behind him; grinned at Courfeyrac’s snorting laughter, and, especially, Enjolras’ shocked expression: mouth ajar, eyebrows pulled together in utter shock and disbelief. Grinned at the hooting and hollering of Jehan and Bossuet, whom laughed hearty laughs and called out, “Grantaire, you sly dog!” and “Stealing a virgin’s lips!”

The joy lasted with all of them, save for Enjolras who quickly composed himself and only shook his head when Courfeyrac teased. As the carriage grew smaller in the distance and bumped on along the streets, Grantaire sat back against the seat, head light and buzzy from wine; his soul cleansed and harmonious from the feeling of Enjolras’ lips. They were soft, he mused. Yet, the adrenaline had erased every other sensuous memory of that brief second. He hoped, desperately, to have that chance again. He would commit it to memory this time.

 

A second call from the carriage rang out that day. This time, in the early afternoon, outside of Courfeyrac’s apartment.

“Well,” called down Courfeyrac from his window, “If it isn’t our local troublemakers.”

Enjolras appeared beside him in the window. Grantaire beamed at the sight of him.

“Indeed,” yelled Jehan. “I have pity for our horse! He needs something to eat. If you have a carrot, or other vegetables, to bring down, we will reward you with a wonderful story.”

“Is it better than the story I will tell to my grandchildren?” said Courfeyrac. “Of the day our unspoiled saint lost his first kiss to a thieving drunkard?” Enjolras shot Courfeyrac a glare.

“Our story is the prologue of such a miraculous event!” called out Grantaire. Enjolras looked down at him and they caught each other’s eyes. Grantaire winked; Enjolras wrinkled his nose.

“Well,” said Courfeyrac, “Then it is worth hearing.”

He parted from the window, grabbing Enjolras’ wrist as well. “My friend,” he said, bringing an arm around his shoulder. “Let us be merry today. Let us treat this day as our final one of boyhood and innocence. For then, we are truly ready to begin anew tomorrow; our souls at ease, out conscious clear of regret.”

“We left boyhood long ago,” said Enjolras.

“Then let me revisit it once more, and for your own sake, I shall bring you along.”

 

Like all French mothers, Courfeyrac’s sweet, small, darling of a mother had taught him that the only way to health was through soup. And, as such, Courfeyrac kept a plentiful collection of items that were easy to throw into hot water. From his kitchen basket, he fetched carrots and celery and took great joy in holding them out, his palm open, for the horse to eat (a neighbor he had known as a child had his finger bitten off by a horse, and, as such, Courfeyrac was always careful around horses).

“Well,” said Jehan, stroking the horse’s long nose. “He seems very happy now. Do you care for a ride?”

“May I sit at the reigns?” asked Courfeyrac, eyeing Bossuet’s space at the front of the carriage. “I grew up with horses.”

“You may be my second in command. I shall rest in the carriage while you are on your watch.”

“And where shall we go?”

“Outside of Paris!” called out Grantaire. “To a forest or field. Let us ride until the sun has reached near the horizon.”

“Then it shall be so!” Courfeyrac climbed up, taking Bossuet’s helpful hand, and settled into the seat. Bossuet climbed into the carriage, followed by Enjolras, who, in the cramped space, sat hip-to-hip with Jehan. From across him was Grantaire, their knees touched by way of the short middle distance.

The carriage took off, weaving through the outer arrondissements. Their spirits swayed as easily as the carriage’s, bobbing gladly between amusement and laughter. They passed around wine, Enjolras himself even bringing his lips to the bottle’s opening, and sputtering when Jehan pinched his side mid-gulp, causing wine to spill from his mouth, much to the others’ great delight. They reveled in this short-lived luxury, acted as if all (but Bossuet) had not grown up in such splendor.

For the last time in their lives, they were not men of the revolution, but simple schoolboys, unburdened, undaunted, and happy.

 

Grantaire awoke facing the sun with his elbows bent, hands flat, to cradle the back of his head. He awoke to the breeze against his face and the meadow around him.

They had made it out of Paris and into nature; into a grove of brightly colored grass dotted with small flowers, which poured out onto the tiny dips of hills. The sky above, bright and blue, was shining with a white-hot warmth.

Grantaire had not been asleep long. In the fifteen minutes he had rested, little had changed. Jehan remained seated by Bossuet, plucking flowers from the earth and holding it between the two of them.

“This one is chamomile. It brings luck, I think.”

“I’m in need of that.”

Courfeyrac lay nearby on his stomach, watching the two with amusement. “You’ll need more than that flower, hombre.”

Enjolras sat some distance away, in the space between Grantaire and the others. Nearby everyone, but not directly besides them, either. He held a book, which he would glance up from every so often to watch, tenderly, the teasing of his friends nearby.

Enjolras was best fit in Paris, amongst fervor and frenzy. But now outside the hive, there was something naïve and innocent about him. With his coat off, with the soft hues around him, Grantaire imagined a world where he could have painted him and called the artwork Le Garçon Provincial; critics could have lauded the portrait, noted the beauty of the subject, the angelic goodness in his face, but never could have guessed the hero, burning with fire, beneath the façade.

Grantaire stretched and stood to join him, coming to sit hip-to-hip. Enjolras glanced over to him, his lips upturning, slightly, in a welcoming smile.

“The provinces suit you, dear friend,” said Grantaire. “How the sun streaks your hair, turning it from the root to gold; goddesses have weaved tapestries from no golden thread so fine as yours. You seem an angel, having fallen onto the field of heaven.” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his knees, and watched Bossuet sneeze the petals off of one of Jehan’s flowers. “But you didn’t grow up in forests and fields; you were raised in Toulouse. Near the river.”

“You remember,” commented Enjolras. He set down his book. “I did.”

“A child of the Occitan.”

“Indeed. Such is my namesake.”

“Hm,” Grantaire could imagine Enjolras there easily, how small he must have looked as a child, standing in front of the grandiose pink-bricked buildings. He could imagine him looking out from Pont Neuf, the warmth of the sun freckling his cheeks as it rebounded off the water. Maybe as a child, he would throw his legs over the edge of the bridge there, kick them above the current far below. Had he ever been so lightweight in feeling? Or had he been born serious, known always that he had a purpose to be done?

“And your parents still live in your expensive family home there, I’m guessing.”

“My father, yes,” said Enjolras. “My mother died some time ago.”

Grantaire frowned. His heart sank for him. He knew, by way of Courfeyrac’s rare gossip, that Enjolras rarely spoke of his parents or his upbringing. He seemed apathetic toward his roots; any familial loyalty, he saved for the people on a grand scale.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Grantaire, his eyes crinkled sadly with compassion. “Was it sudden?”

A perplexed look crossed Enjolras’ face, bringing him from his quiet reserve to something jilted, un-eased. He furrowed his brow and clicked his tongue. “I’m not sure,” he said honestly, looking at Grantaire.

Grantaire stared back. Pursed his lips, tried to wrap his head around the answer. “I don’t understand.”

“My mother…” Enjolras’ voice dropped. It became quieter, giving only Grantaire its audience. “She purposely tore herself apart with a knife. It surprised no one.”

Grantaire gaped.

“And so,” Enjolras continued, “It was sudden, if we go by definition. Yet, it was expected, so, no, it wasn’t sudden. That is why I did not know how to answer.”

Grantaire touched a hand to Enjolras’ shoulder. “It hurts me to have heard that.”

“Worry not; she suffers no longer.”

“Were you young when this happened?”

“Fourteen, I believe. Perhaps a year younger.”

Grantaire sighed sadly. He peered at the small, white flowers between his feet. “Suffering comes for all classes, for all names, and titles.”

“But it is different,” said Enjolras. He looked out against the field, his eyes tracing hills far in the distance. He was lost in memory for a moment. Finally, he sighed. “My mother died by way of her own purpose, for no better good for anyone else but herself. She had been given everything and still could not find joy. She felt no pity for those who die but want to live. She took a life anyone else would have desired for. And then, think of the poor who suffer. They have no choice; if they run from their miserable lives, there is no leftover wealth to coddle their children. She chose to acknowledge only her own suffering, and she overindulged herself in it.”

There was spite in Enjolras’ voice; an old bitterness grown from childhood, cultivated by fear, and misunderstanding, and hurt. It made Grantaire feel bare, exposed, and ruined.

“I feel very sad, very often,” whispered Grantaire. “I do not starve nor suffer greatly, yet I am plagued by it. Perhaps this is why you dislike me. Perhaps I am like her, in a way.”

Grantaire thought of nights too drunk to properly load a pistol. Hanging his head over a trough of water. Going out into the mountains as a child, beaten and bruised by his father, wondering how many days until he could properly starve to death and labeling himself a failure when his growling stomach forced him back home. Mornings with his pillow over his head, neither wanting to sleep or live or die.

“I don’t dislike you,” said Enjolras. His voice, it seemed, was almost lovely, small, tender. “And I don’t dislike her. I merely do not understand it.”

“Be kind to her memory,” said Grantaire. He looked to Enjolras. He felt the quiver in his own voice. “There was goodness in her, of that I am sure.”

Although Grantaire could not see the goodness in himself, he could see it plainly in this woman. In the moments between her sorrows, or even while encompassed within them, she had molded a human whom was to be either a revolutionary or a martyr; brilliant, charismatic, strong. A light in in the weeping hours of darkness. Her own spirit had to be within him.

Enjolras leaned back on his hands and looked upward, squinting into the sun. He remained quiet for a while until, finally: “And your family?”

“Near France’s border with the Kingdom of Sardinia,” said Grantaire. He thought of white-capped mountains and red rooftops. The fine wines his father would collect. The taste of the oil-soaked mushrooms his mother adored; the thick accent that littered her French when she spoke. He thought of his elder sister, her thick, black hair escaping from its bun to frame her tan face. “I speak a dialect of Italian. Did you know that?”

“Perhaps that is why you enjoy opera.”

“And for many reasons more.”

Enjolras smiled. He couldn’t understand it, opera. Or art, or ballet. But all such dramatics suited Grantaire. “Perhaps you belong more to Sardinia than to France.”

“Psh,” chided Grantaire. He waved a hand in the air. “My mother, yes; but although I curse my father, just as he curses me, I am as French as he is. I am ‘Grand R,’ not ‘Grande R.’”

“And your sister? Was she more French as well?”

Grantaire’s mouth opened, his eyebrows arched upward. “She was. .  . You knew I had a sister?”

“Yes,” said Enjolras. The edge of his lip twitched, his eyes looked downward. “I was told what happened. Her illness…”

“Ah,” sighed Grantaire. “We have both suffered loss, then. Death affects us all; our only purpose in life is to die. How cruel is this God of ours, to give us a taste of breath, and take it away for eternity.”

“The religious would say that we are blessed to have ever been given that breath at all.”

“The religious are fools. I am a realist, I see through the ruse. They are naïve.”

“Perhaps you are better suited to haunt a monastery, than the Musain. Your cynicism would be better use there.”

“Yes, perhaps, but there is no Monsieur Enjolras at the monastery.”

“No? I believe there is. An uncle of mine at some abbey near Toulouse,” Enjolras smirked. Grantaire had the great desire, suddenly, to kiss him again. To revel in it a second time, to at last savor it completely. To lean him backwards until they both lay naked in the field, existing together in this realm of white flowers and clear skies.

And then, suddenly, he felt sorrow.

“We don’t have to go back to Paris,” said Grantaire quietly, sadly. He glanced over to Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bossuet, the three now sitting in a circle, their legs crossed, playing some card game between them. “Is this not better? In this no-man’s land, what rules of monarchy, politics, or injustice hurt us? Why do we pretend our little lives are worth enough to change the outcome for all of France’s populace? We contribute more— to ourselves and to each other— out here.”

Enjolras smiled sadly. He looked out, past the heads of their friends, past the edge of the field, to a spot of sight Grantaire could not follow. He gave no effort answering, knowing that both he and Grantaire knew the truth. Paris needed Enjolras. Enjolras needed Paris. And where he went his friends followed, especially Grantaire.

Grantaire leaned back, his spine softly hitting the earth, his eyes tracing endless blue above. “I see your answer in the silence. Then I must resign to only think of this day often.”

Enjolras wrapped his arms around his bent legs. He rested his chin against his knees and closed his eyes. And then, softly, he said, “I will too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love goes toward love as school-boys from their books... - Quoted from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Act 2, Scene 2.
> 
> Hombre - I will never get over that it is canon that Courfeyrac calls people "hombre." God bless you, Victor Hugo. 
> 
> Occitan - An area of France with its own language, culture, and cuisine. The Occitan language also pops up in areas of Spain and Italy. 
> 
> The Kingdom of Sardinia - What is now modern-day Italy.
> 
> -
> 
> As always, thank you, thank you, thank you for your unconditional support and readership! <3 We'll now be heading into the last arc of this little story of mine; thank you for sticking with me!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A MILLION apologies for the wait! I ended up having to write and re-write this chapter a few times due to my own dissatisfaction with the tone. But, at last, here it is. :) 
> 
> But most importantly, I was recently blessed with the most wonderful beta, Swedishmafiafish. A million thanks to my newest friend! You'll notice within a few days, I'll be rolling out his corrections on my previous chapters and so, because of him, you'll notice a huge upgrade in grammar, clarity, etc. in this little story. :) 
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy:

Grantaire could take it no more. Such were the first words that spilled from his drunken mouth as he stood leaning against the wall of the Musain. "I go crazy from it," he continued. His grip on Enjolras' arm tightened. "Soul of France, voice of the people, specter of my thoughts, I come to you yearning for more than just your cold shoulder."

"Not here, Grantaire," Enjolras hushed. Their friends paid them no attention, and yet, Enjolras was on edge. So easy it was for Grantaire's small comments to become embarrassing rants. The mixture of brandy and wine in his stomach was always a precursor, and that precursor settled well in his gut that night.

"I lay before you!" said Grantaire wildly, his free hand making a sweeping motion through the air "Barren in pride, my Achilles heel turned to you and behold! It is no heel, but heart."

"Stop that." Enjolras tore his arm away. "Come here. Come outside."

Grantaire followed without further word. They descended the staircase and, upon it, Grantaire's sloppily-placed ankle turned. He slipped forward, but Enjolras steadied him with a huff. "Get a hold of yourself," he said, as they exited through the front door.

In two days it would be June, yet the cold still clung to the night air. Enjolras shivered in the windchill and folded his arms in front of himself. Grantaire, whom he assumed had the cloak of alcohol warming his body, gave no indication of discomfort. He leaned against the wall, seemingly humming to himself. He was contented, it seemed, to have Enjolras alone for the first time in weeks.

Enjolras settled to say little. He could withstand the cold if it meant forcing Grantaire to sober up. Even better if this process could be done without unnecessary prattling.

"You've been ignoring me," said Grantaire suddenly. The hope for repose had been dashed.

"You've been irritating tonight," Enjolras countered.

"No," said Grantaire, giving a dramatic shake of the head. "No, not just tonight. For a long time. For weeks."

"I won't deny that."

"Let me tell you what finally broke me today. What grabbed me by my heart! I went to Courfeyrac's -- don't bother me for the reason, but, alright, I shall tell you: there were some pantaloons he no longer needed, and I am a man in need of them. And during my visit, I asked him: 'Where has your dining table gone?' And he told me he moved it into your apartment weeks ago. Weeks ago! For the sake of meetings that go on longer than the Musain's posted hours. And can you believe it? Over the locale of a simple table, I felt utterly destroyed. Yes, for in that mere knowledge, I realized it had been so utterly long since I had been taken in kindly by you. **"**

From the open window upstairs, Combeferre's voice rang out. A flurry of others followed it, creating a spirited chorus debating the day and the time of Lamarque’s approaching death. "Cholera can kill in mere hours!" came Joly's voice.

Enjolras listened; he ached to be among the fervor, no matter how limited his medical expertise was. Yet, instead, he was trapped along the border of it, separated by the brick of the building and Grantaire.

"There are more important things to be done now," said Enjolras. He had no mind for worthless prattle. Maybe he did when Spring was young, when rainy days felt languid and everlasting; when night and day looked similar; one day to the next the same; an incessant time of monotony broken up only by political discussion and sex. But, no longer.

"Surely your revolutionary pursuits do not take up all 24-hours of your day. I pray, grant me but an hour in your presence." Grantaire stepped forward; in the fresh air, it seemed the drunken redness of his cheeks had faded. Yet, Enjolras still wrinkled his nose from the harsh smell of brandy on his breath.

"It is regretful," Grantaire continued when Enjolras stalled to answer. "I felt such faith and promise out in the field beyond Paris, when we sat beside one another. It was as if I came to cherish you more, if that is whatsoever possible. But come the next day, you abandoned me in all aspects, becoming but a memory imprinted upon my eyelids, or a string of clipped sentences resounding about the café walls."

"I never promised you anything."

"I know."

Grantaire’s posture deflated; his shoulders slumped, his brow slid low upon his face, his lips parted with a sorrowful sigh. Something about the sight culled a pang of pity from Enjolras’ heart, despite his great desire to ignore it. “You’re drunk,” he said. “Go home and sleep it off.”

Grantaire sighed once more. “I shall,” he said. “But I yearn to sit here for a moment more. I cannot yet face that portrait I fail to complete.”

“Then do so,” said Enjolras. “But I tire of the cold. Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“Goodnight.”

 

The noise of earlier had settled down. With a majority of the group gone, back to their beds and mistresses at the late hour, the Musain assumed the unfamiliar tone of hushed peacefulness. Courfeyrac sat beside Enjolras, his body bent over an academic paper.

Enjolras’ mind was elsewhere. In the silence, his mind wandered, adventuring far from the planning he should have prioritized. Instead, his thoughts bobbed between memories: Grantaire’s lips swollen and red, the lilt in his voice when a surprised laugh bubbled from them. His hands, often smeared with oil paint; in the evenings, after work, how the paint would often appear on his cheek, his hair, the edge of his jaw; great, beautiful splashes of bright red or blue or green.

Truly, Grantaire had to be to blame for Enjolras’ procrastination. Enjolras could find focus and, more importantly, he could be proactive when his head wasn’t clogged with the mess Grantaire often made of it. He felt trapped in these moments; mind going backwards instead of forwards; his clothing felt uncomfortable and his entire skin felt lonely for touch. How trite! Christ, how he hated it. And fuck it all, he couldn't understand it. He felt blind in his own reasoning, unable to comprehend the discord that threatened him and everything he had strived for.

He settled, at least, that he was most distracted due to Grantaire's somber disposition earlier. The lost, pained look upon his face was enough to make Enjolras' heart wrench. In the Musain, Grantaire could be ignored, at least until he became too drunk and too loud; to have others around as well, to keep Enjolras thinking forward, aided in those moments. But to be alone with Grantaire again? To have Grantaire lay out the hopeless situation between them both and fold over in dejected sorrow? Enjolras could go mad from it.

He sighed with great frustration and rested his forehead upon his laced fingers. He flexed his jaw. Bounced his leg from beneath the table with all the energy that seemed to pulse through him. He felt a fevered anxiety; an undercurrent of trepidation that pricked at his skin and twisted his gut. In his dread he envisioned a future of failure, of unpreparedness, and catastrophe.

But still, that damn Grantaire lingered in the foreground.

"You seem forlorn," mused Courfeyrac. He, unlike Enjolras, had made time for his studies. His pen scratched upon paper as he spoke.

"I feel as if I am so easily distracted," said Enjolras against his palms.

"You? No. Prussia would propagate peace before that is the case."

"You don't know my indiscretions."

"Indeed, as I am sure they are minute. They would be but microscopic to the normal human eye."

Enjolras crossed his arms. He leaned back in his chair.

“But anyway,” said Courfeyrac. “Let me tell you my indiscretion: giving my table over to you. How foolish I am! Here I am now, trapped to write reports in the smelly Musain. I considered asking Marius to kneel and bend over just last night so that I could write upon his back, like a man would a table. Even Grantaire chided me for my decision!”

Enjolras' brow twitched. "I tire of Grantaire."

"There is no hope for you," replied Courfeyrac. He dipped his pen in ink. "You may tire of him, but I doubt he will ever tire of you, and thus, there is no escaping him."

"His great fault is not only that he plagues discussion when he is physically present, but in that, even without him, the mere topic of him lingers and disrupts. Take now, for instance."

"For that, at least, there is a cure. We must only stop talking of him, no matter how charming his stories are."

"But he clings not just to remote conversation, but to the _mind_ , Courfeyrac. I've never been so agitated with a single being."

"I can't say I relate," Courfeyrac replied. "I don't take to thinking about him unless he is mentioned."

There was no worth in refuting it. Enjolras sighed deeply and shivered in the small breeze that graced through the open window. The air shuffled Courfeyrac's papers.

"Do you mind," Courfeyrac began as he re-organized the small mess that had been made, "If I shut the window? I fear for the safety of my work."

"Do so," said Enjolras, standing. "I'm going to leave now anyway.”

He noticed Grantaire’s green coat still hanging upon the rack. Despite his gut telling him otherwise, Enjolras took it along with him for safekeeping.

 

A few hours before midnight, there came a knock at his door.

Enjolras would be lying to himself if he claimed to not expect it.

“I went back to the Musain to retrieve my coat,” said Grantaire. “And Courfeyrac said you took it.”

“And so you chose to walk through the cold streets of Paris all the way to my apartment?”

“Indeed; and now I am colder. May I come in? I will freeze to my death unless I can be alongside a fire. Not even my coat will warm me now.”

It was all a ruse. But Enjolras, despite his best efforts, allowed it. He opened the door wider. Grantaire stepped over the threshold.

 

Enjolras’ head was tipped over the bed, back against the mattress, his eyes fixated to the wall in a half-lidded, vacant gaze. His body was limp in Grantaire’s embrace. Pale, blonde-haired legs were propped over Grantaire’s shoulders, and Grantaire, in his stead, sweat above him, rooting himself deeply in the slack body beneath him.

“For fuck’s sake,” Grantaire groaned. “At least let me know I’m not fucking a corpse.”

“This is a waste of time,” said Enjolras flatly. Quickly into the act his mind had returned to functioning. The church bells striking midnight had aroused the wonder if Lamarque would die on this new day; once the thought appeared, all interest in fucking had dissipated. It became as unimportant as a moth.

“Fuck,” Grantaire huffed. He ungracefully untangled himself for Enjolras’ body and paced the floor in his frustration.

“This accomplishes nothing,” Enjolras continued. He sat up. “This does nothing. This is time taken to avoid every issue that still plagues our streets. It is as wasteful as drinking yourself into a—“

“Let me finish at least,” Grantaire interrupted. “Let me put my face against your neck; I’ll stroke myself. Even just sit there, O _resplendent_ Apollo. I’m sure even the glare on your face can bring me to completion.”

“Go home. There are more important things than the outcome of your cock.”

“Oh sweet Lord above! Is that not the cruelest thing a man could hear!?”

“Save your lamentations for another. And warm another’s bed as well; there is no longer room in mine.”

Humor left Grantaire’s face. His eyebrows furrowed. “Do not be callous, no matter how naturally it comes to you.”

“I seem to only be callous with you.”

“I wonder why?”

“There is no wonder when it is so obviously provoked.”  

“I see; and yet I am also the only one allowed in your bed.”

“I just told you: no longer. I would demand you to forget my address if I thought it at all possible.”

Enjolras rubbed the palm of his hands against his eyes and let out an aggravated huff. He stood and threw back on his undershirt and gathered Grantaire’s clothing, shoving the pile into Grantaire’s arms. “Put on your clothes.”

Grantaire stood, dumbfounded. He was accustomed to Enjolras’ pivoting between minor passion and major disillusion. But, he had usually been complacent and engaged when sex (and the very, very small ounce of tenderness Grantaire could not stop himself from giving) was involved. Now, suddenly, he had spun on his heel; emerging mid-affair with his re-adorned resolutions.

“So desperately do you want me to leave?”

“I desire for nothing more.”

“You are cruel,” said Grantaire. He donned his clothing. Enjolras watched him; he stood near the door, ready to creak it open.

“When will I see you next?” Grantaire whispered, approaching.

“Under platonic circumstances,” bit Enjolras. He opened his door. “Goodnight, Grantaire.”

“And for the second time: goodnight Enjolras, you bastard.”

 

June 1st. Rain again. The streets of Paris had been buzzing; in the late night, journalists prepared for their morning headlines, despite almost all of Paris already knowing the news of Lamarque’s death by the late evening.

Deep into the early hours of June 2nd, Enjolras faced the window in his cold, half-empty apartment. His soul felt on fire; his legs felt ready to run.

It was four in the morning. An idea of what the next few days contained had been mapped, charted, scheduled, agreed upon between Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and he. From his window, Enjolras watched their backs disappear down the dark street. It was late, but Enjolras was energetic; if he could have scheduled the funeral for that very hour, he would have.

But, instead, he was forced to take to pacing. He rounded the confines of his room, sifting through ideals and preparation for the next days.

Somewhere in those thoughts, an image of Grantaire shoved itself in.

Enjolras’ pace halted. He frowned. He cleared his head of the thought and continued pacing, back to the subject at hand. Yet, whenever he would pause, his eyes would focus elsewhere and so, too, his brain.

He must have been going insane from the late night. But, in reality, his nerves were on edge. Despite his euphoria, he felt antsy and jumpy. Anxiety and willingness often intermingled into excitement, and this form had settled squarely into Enjolras’ soul. And once his mind had found a distraction, a tiny reprieve (as unlikely of a reprieve Grantaire often seemed to be), it became an obsession.

And in that, his great exuberance came crashing.

Agitation bore against his temples. He sighed with great frustration and rested his forehead between his hands.

Enjolras' greatest pride was not his looks, nor his birthright, his reserve, nor bravery: the thing he liked most about himself, if he felt it no sin to admit, was his resolution.

But with Grantaire, Enjolras seemed to utterly lack it. It was like a disease passed from one to the other; from Grantaire to Enjolras. When had he contracted such instability? That first night?

His apartment felt stifling. He had grown tired of the circulating air and the circulating thoughts that refused to escape through the open window. He donned his coat and went back outside, feeling akin to how Courfeyrac had described Marius some time ago: mindlessly wandering, pathetic, and disturbed.

Of course his legs took him back to that small street lined with cobblestone; he had been pulled by some phantom thread, back to a small, cobblestoned street that was most known to him between the hours of midnight and early morning. He ground his teeth at the sight of it.

And yet he entered the building and climbed the stairs, wound himself through the dark hallways, until he counted down the door numbers and found Grantaire's. By then, his mood had dipped further, sinking into a shrill and angry disposition.

When he knocked, he knocked firmly. When Grantaire answered— his tired and curious expression quickly jolting into shock with eyes wide and gaping mouth— Enjolras countered with a deep-set frown. He entered wordlessly, and Grantaire stood aside to let him in.

Enjolras threw off his coat without delicacy, pulling it off with an angry jerk, and kicked his shoes aside with the same care. Grantaire watched him, a concerned expression marring his features.

"I thought you were finished with me."

"Be quiet."

And Enjolras strode forward, grabbing the sides of Grantaire's face with force, and shoved their lips together pointedly. Grantaire gasped before the assault, producing a deep-voiced, "Oh," that was quickly muffled between the two of them.

Lips wild and red, pressed between teeth, run over by tongues; in the midst of it, Enjolras grabbed at Grantaire's undershirt, undoing the few buttons with haste, only breaking the kiss when he looked down to coordinate his hands. But Grantaire pulled his face back upward, and his own hands took to pulling the shirt over his head and then set his fingers upon the vest Enjolras had arrived in.

Only Enjolras’ trousers, braces, and undershirt remaining, Grantaire sunk to his knees, pulling open Enjolras' trousers with desperation. His face was reddened, Enjolras noted, and his eyes seemed to glisten in a present state of wide-eyed shock. Hand placed firmly in Grantaire's hair, Enjolras pressed his cock into Grantaire's mouth, groaning immediately from the feeling.

He could just fuck his throat and be done. Have every demanding thought vanquished for the day. Return back to normality and progress and accomplishment.

But he had been too demanding. Following a rally of thrusts, Grantaire gagged and pulled away, his face twisting at the force being pressed against the backside of his throat. He coughed. His eyes watered from it. "I'm sorry," he said with a hoarse voice. "You're rough usually, but more so right now. Take your time. Let me enjoy this a bit more, could you?"

“I have no patience. Everything runs on the clock of revolution now; there is no time for anything any longer.” He paused. “Lamarque is dead.”

Shock hit Grantaire’s face like a cold splash of water. He had spent his day hungover and slumping over the half-finished canvases in his room. The news had not reached him until now. “Oh.”

The moment was lost in the brief silence that followed. Grantaire remained on his knees as Enjolras straightened his pants and tucked his cock back beneath his clothing. "Never mind it," said Enjolras, his words sounding clipped. He walked a few paces to reach for the vest that had been thrown nearby.

"No, no, it's alright." said Grantaire. He crawled across the few steps between them and reached once more for Enjolras' trousers. Enjolras, in turn, sneered at the pathetic sight. Guilt—he surmised it as such— twisted in his gut.

"Grantaire," he said, "Don't bother. Have some pride. Stand up."

"Please stay," said Grantaire, standing. "I fear you'll never return if you leave."

"Such would be a blessing to me if that is the case."

The sad twist of expression that covered Grantaire's face was a travesty. "Why do you say this to me?" he said softly. "You are steadfast in all but your opinion of me. Due to this, I ache at the sight of you. Just as I ache when I am without you. You curse me to the depths of loneliness before pulling me back up from those waters, only to cast me back in again. I will go crazy from it. From anyone else, I could be strong enough to withstand such treatment, but from you: no, never. I will perish under such circumstances."

"Then perish as you will it," Enjolras had spoken before thinking; a rarity he immediately regretted.

"You are cruel, Enjolras," said Grantaire, softly. His hands trembled. "You knew — _knew_ — how deeply this would take me. And you controlled the depth of our interactions, for you dictated every step. And you knew how eagerly I would come at your command. But more-so than that: you knew how desperately I clung to you — damn well _needed_ you.”

Grantaire continued on, his voice rising: “And so you knew, too, how I would suffer at your callousness. And indeed, I came like a sheep to slaughter. So, too, did I figure that I would be set alight and extinguished, but I came to you with pure intention and with pure care; I came heart in hand, with hope wedged between the folds of it. There was no malice, ever, in my intention. I cared for you since the beginning.”

Enjolras' nose wrinkled. He could see it in Grantaire's face, the sincerity of his agony. Enjolras could recount the tenderness of the man, the softness of his neck against Enjolras’ nose; the gentleness of his fingers as he threaded them through Enjolras’ hair.

But then came other memories. The snide remarks; the cynical chipping at everything that Enjolras held dear. Grantaire drunk and nagging. Pushing the pamphlets off of Enjolras' bed haphazardly, leaving them behind for Enjolras to sort the next morning. His boorish relishing which consisted of those slippery little clues he would spatter within the stories he told at the Musain or the Corinth ("Here is my wisdom from experience, friends: blondes are fiery, almost more-so than redheads. But get a blonde wearing red and you'll never leave the bed."). His dichotomy between tender and carnal left Enjolras reeling, forcing him to focus on the only one that made sense to him: the salacious.

"Don't play virtuous,” cut in Enjolras, bitterly. “What did you ever want, Grantaire? More; you always want more. Whatever dignity I had, you asked, and I gave it. I have laid in your bed, I have bent over for you, laid on my back, gotten down upon my knees; like a woman. All of that, and still you beg at my feet like a dog."

Grantaire gaped. He took a step back, as if this accusation had wounded him. "And that is how you view me, as a nagging dog perpetually in heat? As if that's all I have ever been needing for?" If Grantaire had any humor left, he would have laughed. "I won't lie, whatever by-product of sex you give to me, I will lap up, as any man would. But that is not why I come back to you again and again and again. I will tell you what I ask from you, Enjolras. I will tell you.”

Immediately, upon the threat of revelation, Enjolras knew; he knew, he knew, he knew.

Enjolras knew Grantaire liked tenderness; he remained aloft and gentle too long over Enjolras' body, even after they had been spent. How many times had he finished with his neck craned downward, resting his forehead against Enjolras’. And in these moments, Grantaire possessed a quiet voice that always sounded like a smile; he would rub his thumb back and forth against Enjolras’ face — "Do I live in a dream? How joyful I am to exist here with you. Yes, you narrow your brows at me, but I open my arms to you. Allow me to tell you: you are the only happiness I have been willing to accept.” — such performances had given a small view into this. Yet, it wasn't until then that Enjolras had realized...

"Don't bother saying it."

Grantaire spared no pause. "I ask for love. And if you are unable to give it, I ask for you to accept mine.”

And there was the triggering word that had lingered in Enjolras' psyche without a name; that feeling he had long sidelined. Grantaire asked not for “love” -- the kind shared amongst friends, relatives, comrades -- but for Love: that capitalized, devoted, obsessive, and all-consuming intensity. But Love, for Enjolras, had never been a feeling he associated toward Grantaire. Could Enjolras love? Of course. To him: love was patriotism, love was selflessness for the sake of the beaten; love was the devoted, obsessive, and all-consuming desire for progress. Because, that was a love in multitudes.

Romantic love, in its great overstated worth, was trivial. Banal. It changed only the lives of one or two persons and often added another child to the sad and destitute populace. What was society’s worth in that? What benefit did it grant to humanity as a whole?

In the short silence, Grantaire still held steadfast. His shoulders were squared, his head aloft.

Enjolras boiled. His heart raced; his head felt dizzy. But he steadied himself. He could focus on the immediate truth: the revolution all of France had been waiting for would be swept forward by way of Lamarque’s funeral. That was what was important; not this. Never this.

"You have nothing but love to give me,” he said, “And good God, I have no need of it. If you are desperate for such devotion, go find a wife."

Grantaire frowned. How could he be surprised at Enjolras’ outburst? He had confessed, knowing that there was no hope. "I don't want a wife."

"And I don't want you, Grantaire."

"Yet you did but a moment ago. I surmise then: you want me only when I'm lying upon the bed, on my back? Or on my knees?”

"No, I want neither at this point. Neither your tenderness, nor your sex."

"Your tongue tears my heart more than a bullet would."

Enjolras huffed. This was going nowhere. His heart was pounding in his ears. The room was getting lighter and lighter, the sun rising at last behind the horizon. Three more days until revolution. He needed rest. He needed silence to think. He ignored Grantaire’s expression and went to fetch his boots.

“Enjolras,” said Grantaire suddenly.

"Grantaire."

"What now for us?"

The question made Enjolras' hands hesitate. The fingers that had been stretching his boots over his ankles paused. He became still, bewildered at the question.

What now?

“We will commandeer the funeral procession," said Enjolras, evenly. By returning to what was important, he had regained his composure. His back straightened. He strode across the apartment, stopping some feet from where Grantaire stood. “We will build barricades, just as all others did before us. The people will stand behind us, and we will rise.”

“But, for us...” countered Grantaire, his voice suddenly so quiet Enjolras strained to hear it.

“For us,” said Enjolras. “For us, there is nothing. I have threatened the end of it before; and while my prior threats were embarrassingly empty, I intend now to fulfill my promise. Do you understand?”

Grantaire nodded. He looked tired and worn. Mournful.

“Up until the funeral,” Enjolras continued, “Do not bother me.”

Grantaire’s lips twitched. He ached so painfully, so terribly; the sting reached from his heart to the tips of his fingers. ”Then let me embrace you," he said, voice breaking. "A final farewell to everything."

"Don't be amorous."

"Please, I beg of you."

"Save your tears for the funeral.”

Enjolras donned his coat. And, with only a small glance he said: “Goodnight, Grantaire,” and shut the door.  

 


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire pressed his hands against his face, breathing in the stink of gun powder and grease. Where had his lifetime gone? From mountains drenched in olive oil, to the dirty opium dens of Paris. Grantaire knew it -- when the bell tolled the midnight hour of June the fifth -- he would die before a musket barrel; 29-years of debauchery and meaninglessness snuffed out in a revolt he had never truly set his heart into.

He left the Musain without much of a glance behind him. Most had headed home, anyway, to find comfort in mistresses, or write letters to their mothers.

For Grantaire, he took to walking, chasing memories down tiny streets and gaping boulevards. From Rue D’Leige, where his first apartment lay (stuffed with roaches, mold upon the walls, but he painted his first still portrait there, as dawn crept in through the broken window), to the café that served rosewater-sweetened cakes, its dollops of creme, stacked high like cloudy mountains. He passed the brothel where he had lost his virginity (her name was Saskia; she wasn’t French; that’s all he remembered; he was so horrendously drunk, but he felt hopelessly in love with her for months). Passed the small alleyway where he swore he could remember, so perfectly, the rise and fall of Enjolras’ chest; the taste of copper in his mouth. His boots took him to the art studio. LeGros, last time, had smacked the back of his palm against Grantaire’s head (“What is this desecration on the canvas? Is your subject a leper?”). The portrait remained unfinished; it would never be completed.

But a few hours in the night were not enough to chase down all the impressions made in the span of years. He adored Paris. He revered Paris, despite its scum and sorrow. He found himself home within it.

He didn’t feel ready to die; not when his life had been only momentary glimmers of happiness.

His walk had sent him in a circle; all paths lead to the Musain should be the saying. The café had changed in the two hours he had been gone — the bright, sparkling preparations for the coming day were now still and dark. Everyone had gone home; carried their guns close beside them, wrapped in coats to conceal this weaponry.

Where was Enjolras, Grantaire wondered. It was down his street and in his bed that Grantaire most wished to revisit. But he kept himself away from it; the sting from three days ago still lingered.

The memory of _that_ truly depressed him. The urge to continue wandering seemed more daunting than before. Grantaire’s home was close, anyway. He could rest, take some wine, see if this nostalgia would pass.

But God — despite his shortcomings — was kind on that night. Standing in front of Grantaire’s yellow-toned building was Enjolras. Despite the street lamps tethered to the buildings, the moon was the brightest. Enjolras stood in this pale, somber light. A glorious specter.

Grantaire startled at the sight. The breath knocked out of him. All of this wandering, and what he had truly wished to find had been here, of all places.

“Enjolras,” he said, dumbfounded.

“Grantaire,” came the calm reply.

Grantaire approached, coming to stand just an arm’s length away. He felt, in that moment, that the world comprised of just the two of them; no candles in the neighbors’ windows were lit. The streets, wet and reflecting the moon above, were empty. Whatever noise or scuffle of city life that permeated all facets were dulled by the noise of internal heartbeat.

Grantaire looked at this man before him, who seemed in this damp, strange night serene and gentle. His eyes, so often harsh beneath a brow, were rounded; his lips were turned upward, into a small, reserved smile.

Grantaire swallowed. “You have not been waiting for me, have you?”

Enjolras’ expression twitched; his eyes cast themselves downward. A line appeared between his brows. “I was unkind,” he said simply, quietly. “On the day Lamarque died.”

Grantaire took a breath. “Oh,” he said, his face growing warm.

“We may stand on different ground, you and I,” Enjolras continued. He looked to Grantaire, “But I treated you spitefully.”

“I hadn’t expected anything different.”

“Nevertheless, I apologize.”

Grantaire’s eyes remained fixed on Enjolras; he gave a small nod. “Does this mean,” he ventured, in attempt to ease the vulnerable air, “You’ll share my bed tonight?”

Enjolras, despite himself, gave Grantaire an exasperated look. “There are still more important things, Grantaire,” he said in a sigh.

“More important than tenderness?” Grantaire stepped into the street. He looked up, to the stars, and drew his arms outward, “On what is perhaps our last night of life?”

“Here are our differences: you value romantic sonnets. I value the _Rights of Man_.”

“Then read both—”

“I don’t have time at the moment—“

“Better yet,” Grantaire looked to him, his arms settled at his sides, “I ask you: what is revolution for?”

“It is for liberty.”

“It is for people.”

“It is liberty for the people.”

“So, in the end it is for people.”

Enjolras frowned. “I don’t have time for word games,” he said, joining Grantaire in the street. “Not with all I have to do still.”

“What will you do tonight?”

“Prepare.”

“And visiting me is part of your preparations?”

Enjolras went quiet.

The winding street and the stars above it stretched out into an unknown ether. Neither man had expected to live past their revolution — each coming to conclusion by their own reasoning. Neither wholly embraced it, nor denied it. There were but mere hours left; neither would grow old, neither would ever again embrace a peaceful sleep leading way to a chilly morning; there would never again be a fine meal, or the good sun upon their shoulders. Whatever letters they ever sent to family would cease coming, and as any living friends aged, they would be further forgotten. They existed here, and they existed now, but soon only in the fleeting scents left upon old clothing or their smudged handwriting, fading within ledgers.

In the cold still of the night, Enjolras finally asked, “And you, Grantaire? What will you do?”

Grantaire’s eyes closed. He could see the storefronts, the streets, the memories behind his eyelids. “I’ve been nostalgic,” he said sadly. “I haunted a few places from my days of yore. Do you remember,” his eyes opened, “Those dear Orleanists we tussled with? I even walked down that alleyway. Curse it all, I still could not find the other half of my tooth.”

Enjolras smiled, briefly, “So much has changed from that night.”

Grantaire looked at the man before him; this good, kind creature who unfurled like silken string in the arms, beautiful and listless. Skin soft, eyes bright. How could it be, Grantaire wondered, that a man who had begun their tryst with blood caked in his hair, and bruises around his neck, had come to possess hands that lingered ever more kindly, ever more softly, whenever Grantaire, in their final months, had broken the embankment between them. This man had every possible talent to love and love fully, for goodness and passion was what drove him.

“It has,” Grantaire whispered. His throat felt raw. His eyes stung. “Do you regret it?”

Enjolras regarded the stars; the moon was too bright to see them, but there were glimmers there, somewhere in the cosmos. He pressed his lips together. “No.”

Grantaire’s eyes closed, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Will you take part in tomorrow?” said Enjolras after some silence.

“I will, after breakfast with Joly and Bossuet at the Corinth. I am planning to be horrendously drunk.”

Enjolras frowned. “If you plan on joining, don’t be a nuisance.”

“Why not? You take it all so seriously. Look at us down here: we are but minuscule atoms in this world.”

“Then do not join.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I will join for you.”

“Join for a purpose, not a person.”

“Is that not also a purpose?”

Enjolras sighed.

“I won’t rebuke you anymore tonight,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll save it for tomorrow, if you manage to come.”

“Enjolras.”

“Grantaire.”

“You are…” Grantaire’s voice stilled; he searched for words, his eyes flickering back and forth in thought. Finally: “You are beloved.”

Enjolras nodded, his eyes peering sadly, kindly, at the man so close to him. They regarded each other for a moment more, until finally departing.

  
  


And so it came. Blood smeared against overturned tables; panic suffocated by adrenaline. The barricade had not yet fallen, even though supplies were low. The National Guard and its corresponding allies had retreated in the night.

There was a moment, in these hours, unmentioned in previous accounts, wherein it was not the final stand that awoke Grantaire from his absinthe-laced dream, but the stillness of the night.

The barricade he awoke to smelled of soot and ash; the merriment and excitement that had proceeded his long sleep had entirely dissipated by the early morning hours, leaving behind a ghost of its former glory — he could sense it: the tension and fear that hung in the air like a fog.

From his seat, he glanced outside the window; bodies spread before him. Blood interlacing with soil. Men hanging from the edges and angles of the barricade. Grantaire searched, his heart in his throat, for the color of red and blonde amongst the bodies.

From within this mess, an unfamiliar voice came, hushed and rushed and in pain; each word sounded like a groan. “What did you find out?,” it said, “The St-Merry’s bell still tolls.”

“Give me but a moment, and I will concede it; we are not in fine standing.” said another.

And Grantaire could have wept. God above, that voice was Enjolras. Still alive. Good god, still alive. Grantaire released a chest-heaving, shuddering breath. He stood, his legs giving almost out from under him like a newborn foal. His clamoring caused the table and chair he had been passed-out upon to skid across the floor; it screeched out, wood against wood.

The voices halted their whispers. The floorboards of the stairs creaked, announcing a specter’s ascent toward the room Grantaire inhabited.

And a breath later, in the door frame stood Enjolras.

God. Grantaire pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, rubbing at the itch from gunpowder. He bit back tears that threatened; tears from what? The pinch of the powder and smoke, or the relief of seeing Enjolras still standing in this reality he had awoken to?

“You’re alive,” Grantaire croaked. “Christ above, what is this delirious dream I have awoken to? I would call it a nightmare, but you stand before me, so I refuse to call it so. What has happened?”

“Jean Prouvaire is dead,” said Enjolras very suddenly, his vacant stare unwavering. His voice broke. “Bahorel is dead. We will die too.”

Grantaire’s stomach lurched. He gripped his mouth.

Grantaire had prepared for the death of them all, as was in his pessimistic nature. But to exist in one realm of merriment and to be so deftly awoken into its opposite was a vertigo he could not cope with. He leaned out the window and retched.

His throat was so sore; so dry. When his stomach had emptied, he turned back to the room; seeing those bodies outside would only make his nausea return. “How?” Grantaire rasped. “No, don’t say it; I can imagine it. How else, but by guns? Our sweet Jehan; what had the boy ever wished for but a safe world in which to grow his garden? I think so dearly of his hair! Dark and strong, like the bark of a great cedar. And of Bahorel! There was a man who had known the world so well, he called it a friend, and defended it with fists in the air. Good god…”

Throughout Grantaire’s mourning, Enjolras stood still. His arms hung limply at his sides, his eyes trained downward in a solemn defeat.

Who was this man, Grantaire wondered. It hurt all that composed his soul. Grantaire approached him, so close now that he could see the heavy, purple bags beneath Enjolras’ eyes. He could see the bloodied tinge in his hair. He could see his cravat undone, his broad collarbones peeking out from his white undershirt. All about Enjolras was sorrow; deep, horrible, chaotic sorrow that would have swallowed any other mortal man.

The sight of him made a small whimper crawl out of Grantaire’s throat. “Enjolras,” he said. “What wounds have they given you?”

His eyes seemed so distant. His lips opened, his brows loosened. His expression cracked, at last; that hard exterior, finally giving way into weariness.

“I’m so tired, Grantaire,” he said. He brought his hands to his face, shielding his eyes for but a moment. “I’m so tired.”

Grantaire could handle no more; his arms embraced him, winding so tightly around, that their heartbeats came together, thudding against each other through soul and ribs and skin and tattered clothing. Enjolras eased into this embrace without retort, melting into it and becoming a heavy weight in Grantaire’s arms. He gripped him, wholeheartedly. He leaned his heavy head against Grantaire’s shoulder; his hands rested against Grantaire’s shoulder blades. Grantaire pressed a warm hand against the back of his head, holding him closer against the space between shoulder and neck.

“I have killed a man,” Enjolras whispered. Grantaire could feel Enjolras’ heart speed up. He felt wetness against his shoulder.

“Be still,” said Grantaire. He wanted so very much to cry. “Be still, be still. I have faith in your judgement.”

They remained there, clutching each other in the silence, with Grantaire holding Enjolras’ weight. His eyes went bleary, the dimly lit room (a set of candles in various corners, eating the last of their wax) becoming abstract around him. He fought the tears; looked up to the ceiling and blinked them away.

Finally, Enjolras stirred:

“You should go home,” he said.

“I will not.”

Enjolras slipped away, untangling from Grantaire’s embrace with an ache. The top of his cheeks glistened, but his shoulders squared again. “We have five uniforms,” he said in a whisper. “On the ground floor. They lie in the corner.”

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Listen to me, we haven’t barricaded the third flank yet. You can slip out, unknown, and if you are regarded by the army, you seem but one of their own. Do not die here, Grantaire. Do not die for what you have always cursed.”

“I have never cursed you.”

“Please go home; I can take no more of this.”

Grantaire’s chest stung, burning like his lungs and his throat and his eyes.

“Come with me,” Grantaire said. “You must.”

Enjolras shook his head. His expression hardened.

“I shan’t,” he said. His voice was so low. His glory all but broken. Yet, always, he remained dazzling. “I will die here, and I will die here gladly.”

Grantaire trembled. That prick of tears threatened again. “You’ll die,” he said, voice breaking. “I can’t bear to think it. Don’t be a fool, Enjolras, don’t be a fool, please, I beg you. Listen to me, listen to me, please, do not die without need. I beg you.“

Enjolras shook his head. Something — some sense of dignity or pride— had returned to him. His face retained the same tired, hollow look (but his eyes, his eyes! Grantaire noticed, had become more blue from the tearful redness around them; bright and clear and shining), yet his held was held aloft. A god returned.

“I will die with purpose; it is the only way I wish to die. I resign myself to it, and I march to it gladly. May I be martyred, may others be inspired by example. I don’t ask this of you, Grantaire. Go home.”

Grantaire shook his head. “I will not.”

Enjolras’ eyes searched him. His lips parted. “Please.” Enjolras did not beg; this gentle face and that even quieter “please” was the closest thing to it.

Grantaire touched Enjolras on the cheek, feeling the warmth of life beneath this man. Then, Grantaire reached downward, to take his hand and hold it between his own. Enjolras drew away.

“Enjolras,” countered Grantaire, wincing from the denial, “Allow me to stay by you. Let me prove to you how deeply I cherish you.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I cannot; in good conscience, I cannot. Die for what you believe in, not this.”

The night was growing lighter from outside the window. Grantaire frowned. “Then I will do what you ask of me.”

Enjolras nodded, his eyes, briefly, glancing down sadly at this final goodbye. His dark eyelashes rested upon his cheeks, his lips a small, sorry frown.

He said no more; the brief cull of emotion had stopped him for only a moment. He nodded to Grantaire once again, a small smile his way of ‘thank you.’ And when he turned to walk,  his steps resounded more briskly than the way they had entered. Yet, he lingered, briefly, in the doorframe and turned to look back at Grantaire. That sorrowful, weary look returned once more, but there was a gentleness there now; a true care for this man before him.

“Adieu,” Enjolras said softly. A breath of time passed, unspoken between the two of them; eyes taking in what felt like was the last image of the other. 

And then the wooden stairs creaked. Enjolras was gone, back to his barricade, back to his purpose. Grantaire remained.

He could not speak. What he believed to be his last moment with Enjolras had silenced him. His eyes remained fixed to the doorframe. His hands shook.

He did not go to fetch the uniform. Instead, he groped about the room, finding a full bottle of brandy that had been stored away in secret. He opened the bottle and took to drinking.

It was not long before he fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Five Uniforms - In the novel, there is a scene in which Enjolras offers *four* uniforms to the men at the barricade, as a means of escape. For sake of the story, I like to think he offered only four despite there being a fifth one, which was specifically saved for Grantaire's sake. 
> 
> Adieu - Sad fun fact: the direct translation of this is "Until God." Adieu is actually not said often in France, only in very somber, final moments. 
> 
> How has it been almost a month since I have last updated? I am so utterly sorry, but thank you for your patience; I'm going to try and get the next chapter (the final chapter) out much quicker!
> 
> A million thanks to the wonderful SwedishMafiaFish for being the best beta! 
> 
> See you next chapter!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Co-written and beta'd by SwedishMafiaFish, whom got me through a million and a half roadblocks and crises.

"Do you wish to be blindfolded?"

"No."

Enjolras did not fear death. The sun was at his back, coming in through the shattered window. It touched the tops of the shuttered houses as dawn broke. It illuminated the infantrymen surrounding him through the scattered smoke from discharged artillery rifles; their once dark and collective monotone now brightening into recognizable faces. The commanding soldier especially seemed familiar, either a face disfigured by memory, or one so finely memorized after hours of tracking him from behind a hunting rifle. He looked at Enjolras with a sorrowful sternness, lips dipped low on his face. The rest of the soldiers had jaws peppered with peach fuzz. Still just boys, just like he. Just like all of his friends. His good, loyal, courageous friends, now departed. And he had willed it.

"Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?"

"Yes."

Cold air entered from the open window, brushing itself against the back of his damp neck, where sweat and blood had gathered. His coat no longer shielded him from the chill, now that his friends no longer stood beside him. Enjolras welcomed the gust nonetheless — this small reminder of life; the range of memories that this simple breeze produced. Frosty nights, huddled in street corners, where revolutionary murmurings were exchanged in hot puffs of air, traveling like smoke to the stars. Summer, two years ago, when the wind unfurled the flags from the top of Paris’s multitude of barricades. He had felt it then: the assurance of greatness. Courageous anger led on by hopeful idealism.

Now, that future had faltered. Ruined not by the infantry, but by the locked, darkened homes that festered in their silence, heavy and unmoving, like stones trapped in the Parisienne dirt. But he would not die without pride, nor without his resignation. He remained poised despite the hopelessness; calm in his head despite the promise of execution. In the few seconds given to him, Enjolras thought of his friends; he thought of the workers; he thought of the people, staring at their dwindling, half-rotten meals and the candles they refused to light.

In that moment, too, Enjolras felt the wobble of doubt deep in his chest. It was a feeling he seldom visited with, but one which had been unwillingly planted in his heart, and aroused by the very man who embodied it. In spite of himself, he thought of Grantaire in these final moments.

“Take aim!” said the infantry commander, and his colleagues raised their guns in unison, noses pointing toward his chest. He was only one man left, unarmed and surrounded, and still the military machine kept its form.    
  
_ “Rules and regulation,” _ perhaps Combeferre would have said,  _ “But where is the spirit?”  _   
  
Enjolras would die alone, only meters away from the houses that shuttered their windows at the first cry of revolution.

And then came a voice, rising above the pulse of blood beating against eardrums. It echoed against the walls.

“Long live the republic!” it proclaimed. “I am one of them!”

And it was then Enjolras saw Grantaire, tucked in the corner of the room, his eyes wide, chest heaving, dark as a phantom behind the soldiers. He stood beside the table that had kept him disguised amongst the carnage, wide-eyed and disheveled. His face had gone pale, his jaw slack, hair protruding from the shape of his silhouette in what seemed like a thousand directions. His gaze was fixed on Enjolras, awed like a man at last seeing God. The sight of him made Enjolras’ own breath catch in his throat.

Grantaire. This wretched cynic who arose from the ashes of the barricade; whom despite all convictions, disbelief, and uncertainty, had remained in this bloody threshold. Had the citizens outside the barricade stirred? No. But, their own resident pessimist had.

And it was only then Enjolras felt it; mystified in some euphoric state, likely by the adrenaline of the moment, spurring his person and dragging him upward, settling in his chest and resounding the rapid heartbeat against his breastbone: happiness. 

Such a feeling shook him, pulling him from the hopeless melancholy that had haunted him since the prior evening. Grantaire, this proxy of the people, had not left Enjolras to die. He had been inspired despite all cynical convictions; pushed forward unto purpose, despite the allure of easy familiarity. And what brought this bravery about in Grantaire? Enjolras could understand now, at last, the worth in those affectionate moments. The truth spoken in the haze of Grantaire's voice (how stubborn he was, Enjolras chastised himself, to only believe it now). The pull that human adoration could give; the bravery that could be exchanged from one soul to another. No, more-so than that: the love for another that could raise even the most devoted of cynics from his slumber. Enjolras realized then, taking in the image of the disheveled man, that Grantaire had truly loved him.

"Long live the republic," called Grantaire again, barely a hitch passing from his lips as he strode forward. His eyes were wild, still fixed only upon Enjolras. The infantrymen were but shadows in his peripheral. 

Grantaire crossed the threshold, from life to death, placing himself in unison with the condemned. Enjolras watched wordlessly, felt the heat radiate from his skin as he drew closer. Grantaire, practically breathless, took his place beside Enjolras, standing close. And for the first time, Enjolras noticed the charm that Grantaire held; his clever eyes, the smile-lines etched deep around his lips, the way his hair unfurled, untamed and haphazard. And despite being this embodiment of a rascal, Grantaire had remained loyally attached and noble. He saw Grantaire at last —  brave, resilient Grantaire in all of his worth and in all of his sarcastic and messy wretchedness.

"Finish us in one blow," Grantaire declared proudly to the infantry. Then he turned to Enjolras and the stern lines in his face faded; his brows knit together. His eyes peered at Enjolras anxiously, becoming watery and tender. 

The question was a half-whisper. Low toned and needing. It culled the memories of late spring — of Grantaire standing in his little apartment, paintings kicked into corners, his palms open; Enjolras with his feet pointed toward the door, quick to run when Grantaire had plead for affection. 

And despite his show of bravery before their finale, Grantaire had asked this final question the same way he had always done in vulnerable moments. Head tilted, lips pulled into a ready frown. Waiting to flinch from the rebuke, but reckless enough to ask nevertheless. He searched Enjolras' face, taking in every angle and blemish; thanking a God he had always despised for allowing him to see this face before dying.

His lips parted.

"Do you permit it?"

Enjolras' hand searched by instinct. It grasped Grantaire's tenderly. His fingers, calloused from the use of an unfamiliar gun, interlaced between Grantaire's, settling sweetly into a grip firm and assured. And Grantaire's soul soared; all of the happiness he had lacked in his life had at last crashed down upon him in plenty. His eyes searched Enjolras, looking for confirmation that this invitation was honest. 

And it was there, painted in the smile Enjolras now wore. A smile gentle, and tender, and confident.  

Grantaire perished, happily, to the sight of this smile. When the gunfire resounded, his body crumpled upon itself, yet his eyes remained aloft, fixated upon Enjolras' face; the image only disappearing when his vision turned black. 

 

Enjolras died smiling, his hand only releasing Grantaire’s when death overcame him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lack the eloquence to beautifully thank everyone for all of the comments, kudos, and bookmarks that have made this story worth writing. Thank you so, so much for your readership and patience. Thank you for sticking through with this until the end. 
> 
> Also, a thank you to Angualupin on Tumblr, whom wrote a BRILLIANT series of essays analyzing Enjolras -- it was after reading this work that I became inspired to write this, and I highly recommend checking out these essays on Tumblr here: http://angualupin.tumblr.com/post/53845359016/rough-draft-of-part-iv-of-enjolras-and-the
> 
> Finally, if you'd like to find me on Tumblr (and see all of the dumb Les Mis things I reblog) I'm here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/oliviaaavery


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